Copyright

The Garden of Words

Makoto Shinkai

Translation by Taylor Engel

Cover art by Makoto Shinkai

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.

Novel the Garden of Words

©Makoto Shinkai/CoMix Wave Films 2014
First published in Japan in 2016 by KADOKAWA
CORPORATION, Tokyo.
English translation rights arranged with KADOKAWA
CORPORATION, Tokyo through TUTTLE-MORI AGENCY,
INC., Tokyo.

English translation © 2020 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.

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without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual
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rights.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names:

Shinkai, Makoto, author, cover artist. | Engel, Taylor,
translator.
Title: The garden of words / Makoto Shinkai ; translation by
Taylor Engel ; cover art by Makoto Shinkai.
Other titles: Kotonoha no niwa. English Description: First
Yen On edition. | New York, NY : Yen On, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020022335 | ISBN 9781975315672
(hardcover) Classification: LCC PL875.5.H558 K6813 2020
| DDC 895.63/6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020022335

ISBNs: 978-1-9753-1567-2 (hardcover) 978-1-9753-1568-9

(ebook)

E3-20200728-JV-NF-ORI
 Contents

Cover
Title Page
Copyright

Chapter Rain, Blisters, the Thunder Whispers.

One —Takao Akizuki

Chapter Soft Footsteps, a Thousand Years Unchanging, Everybody Has Their

Two Quirks.
—Yukino

Chapter Leading Lady, Moving and the Faraway Moon, Teenage Dreams
Three Change in Three Days.
—Shouta Akizuki

Chapter The Start of the Rainy Season, Distant Peaks, a Sweet Voice, the
Four Secret of the World.
—Takao Akizuki

Chapter Shining Madder Red, Garden of Light.

Five —Yukino

Chapter A Cigarette on the Balcony, Her Back as She Boarded the Bus, If
Six There’s Something I Can Do Now…
—Souichirou Itou

Chapter The One I Idolized, Drawing Eyebrows on a Rainy Morning, What I

Seven Deserve.
 —Shouko Aizawa

Chapter Even Should the Rain Never Fall, a Room Underwater

Eight —Takao Akizuki

Chapter Indescribable.
Nine —Yukari Yukino and Takao Akizuki

Chapter Adult Speed I Can’t Keep Up With, My Son’s Lover, the World That
Ten Refuses to Fade.
—Reimi Akizuki

Epilogue When We Can Walk Farther.

—Takao Akizuki and Yukari Yukino

Afterword
Essay Noriko Kanda
Yen Newsletter
 CHAPTER ONE

Rain, Blisters, the Thunder Whispers.

—Takao Akizuki
I didn’t know about these things until I started high school,
Takao Akizuki thinks.

Some stranger’s umbrella is getting the hem of his

blazer wet. He can smell the lingering traces of mothballs
locked in the fibers of a suit. His back is too warm where
someone is pressed against it. An unpleasant wind from the
air conditioner is blowing right in his face.
It’s been two months since he started riding the crowded
morning train, and the idea that three more years of this
purgatory await him is like a hopeless weight on his soul. In
an attempt to keep from touching the other riders, he
plants his feet and grips the ceiling strap hard enough to
make his fingertips go numb.

I don’t belong here, he thinks, irritated.

He once read a manga that belonged to his brother

about a killer who mowed people down with a machine gun,
and right now he envisions himself doing the same. After
all, it’s just a thought. If there was a killer, though… Takao
promptly reconsiders. I’d be one of the victims. Just a
fifteen-year-old kid. Nothing special.
Outside the small train window and partially blocked by
sullen, silent heads, the rain-soaked city streams past. The
landscape is dulled by thick rain clouds, except for the
sharp lights of the condominiums and mixed-use buildings.
Thin slices of other people’s daily lives flicker past him in
an unceasing river—the reflection of a TV information
program in a table, a tight skirt moving through a
kitchenette, faded posters on walls, an umbrella dashing
out of a bicycle parking lot—and the unknown world
beyond him is overwhelming. And infuriating.
He’s fifteen years old. He knows so little.
Before long, the car leans into a gentle right curve.
When he begins to see the ranks of skyscrapers through
the gaps between the mixed-use buildings, Takao closes his
eyes. He knows what’s coming. One, two, three, four…
When the slow count in his head reaches eight, a low
rumble builds to a burst of wind pressure that rocks the
whole car. He opens his eyes as the windows of the Chuo
Line flash by like a strip of film, just beyond the windows of
his own train.
The same time as always.
Two more minutes until I’m out of this hellbox. He can’t
wait.

“Shinjukuuu, Shinjukuuu.”
Takao is ejected onto the platform just as the
announcement sounds, and he sucks in short, deep breaths
of cold, rainy May air. As the mindless human current
washes him toward the stairs, he thinks, This is it, and
looks up.
Beyond the long, thin ribbon of sky between the platform
roofs, the Docomo Yoyogi building looms like an uncharted
mountain peak, blurred by the rain.
His steps slow, and a few people bump into his back,
including a businessman, who makes his frustration known.
But Takao ignores him and spends two more seconds there,
drinking in the sight of the rain and the tower.
The falling water carries the scent of the distant,
unreachable sky down to him.
This is no day to be riding the lousy subway, he decides,
and the frustration inside him begins to unspool and
dissolve.
Going down the Sobu Line stairs, he turns his back on
the Marunouchi Line transfer gate, walks quickly through
the JR Central East ticket gate, and runs up the stairs by
the Lumine EST building with newfound cheer. Popping
open his clear vinyl umbrella, he steps out into the
downpour, and the plastic above his head becomes a
surround-sound speaker playing the sound of rain.
Patter patter patter. It’s so pleasant as he makes his way
through the crowd at the southeast gate. This early in the
morning, the Shinjuku commuters are joined by all sorts of
other people. Men and women, probably nightclub staff
who were drinking up until just a little while ago; a line of
about a dozen people waiting for the pachinko parlor to
open; a group of similar-looking Asian tourists, perhaps a
large family; an odd couple wearing cosplay-style uniforms,
whose ages and occupations are impossible to guess.
It’s so weird, he thinks. If today had been sunny, I’d be
so angry to see them here. I would’ve wished death on all
of them, and yet…
Maybe it’s because they all have umbrellas up—because
the rain falls on all of them equally. On a rainy day, when he
walks along by himself in his high school uniform, he’s just
another part of the scenery. Somewhere along the way, the
curses and hatred he held on the train have dispersed
completely.

He crosses the congested Koshu-Kaido Avenue and

passes the permanently unfinished construction site for the
Loop 5 road, and a dark, dense forest rises before him. The
enormous national park straddles the boundary between
Shinjuku and Shibuya Wards. On rainy mornings, it’s
practically deserted, almost as if it’s there just for him.
The clack of the automatic gate sounds oddly loud in the
empty park.
The gate eats his ¥200 park entry ticket. I really need to
get an annual pass next time, he thinks, and then he steps
into the park. He’ll need to take an ID photo and pay
¥1,000, but that ¥200 per visit has added up to a ridiculous
amount already. He’s worried about being questioned about
his school uniform during the application process, though,
which has given him some pause.
With such thoughts running through his head, he strolls
down a path among the Himalayan and Lebanon cedars,
and then the air and sounds and scents suddenly change.
The temperature comes down a full degree, the scent of
water and new greenery fills the air, and despite the rain,
he can hear the contented singing of wild birds.
On the other side of a mixed forest of metasequoias and
sawtooth oaks, there’s a traditional Japanese garden with a
pond. The sound of raindrops and their innumerable ripples
whispers hauntingly from its surface.
Seriously, how…
The emotion aching in his chest is one he’s felt many
times before.
This world is so intricate, he thinks, spellbound.
Hundreds of millions of raindrops, trillions of ripples, all
intertwined with each other—no matter where or when he
looks, the interplay never breaks down. It’s perfection. How
could someone ever hope to realize perfection like this with
skill?
And by comparison…
As he walks over the arched bridge to the far side of the
pond, Takao looks down at his feet. The moccasins he’s
wearing are heavy and waterlogged through the gaps in
their stitching, clopping awkwardly with each step.
I’ll have to start making new shoes this weekend, he
thinks, but it doesn’t affect his excitement.
He did a decent bit of waterproofing on these handmade
moccasins, but they aren’t going to last long in a season as
rainy as this one. He’ll make the next pair last two months,
he decides, and he looks up from the crest of the bridge at
the wide expanse of cloudy sky to the west.
The Yoyogi building is visible here, too, and it looks even
bigger. It watches him from high above as the tip of the
tower gently dissolves into the clouds on the other side of a
misty curtain.
That’s right. I saw this tower back then, too, from the
cold grass at Meiji Shrine.
It’s been over two years since then, but all the emotions
of that moment rise inside him again—the joy, the pain, the
resolve—as if they’ve thawed out of ice. However, he also
notices that the sting has turned into something faintly
bittersweet. I’m still a kid, but at least…
At least I’m beginning to understand what I like, and
where I’m headed, he thinks.
The thunder rumbles faintly in the distance, as if in
answer.

***

Takao Akizuki had started middle school as Takao Fujisawa.

About three months after his first year of middle school
began, his mother came home early one night—an unusual
event. The two of them finished dinner, and not long after
his mother’s evening drink had changed from beer to
shochu, she asked him a question.
“Takao, do you have a girlfriend?”
“Huh? No…”
When he looked at his mother’s face, mystified, her eyes
were red and bloodshot. She looks awful when she’s drunk,
he thought, but he held a glass of ice water out to her. She
ignored it and instead dumped more shochu and hot water
into a ceramic tumbler, stirring them together with a
muddler. …Ugh. She’s planning to drink more.
“Hey, Mom, should I put out some edamame for you?”
“Don’t bother. Say, you wanna drink a little, too, Takao?”
Who even has parents like this? he thought with disgust.
“No.”
 “Aw, pull that stick outta your butt. I had my first
boyfriend and my first drink in my first year of middle
school.”
He’d been wondering what she was going to come up
with this time, and apparently it was tales of her checkered
love life. Right after starting middle school, she’d dated the
baseball club member who had the seat next to hers, but a
few months later, a senior member of the soccer club had
told her he liked her; she hadn’t been able to decide
between them, so she dumped the baseball player. After
that, she’d fallen hard for a high schooler she saw on the
train on the way to school. She’d worked up the courage to
ambush him at the station and give him a love letter, and
miraculously, he’d said okay. He’d come over to her house
from time to time, and their parents had given the green
light, too; she’d gotten her first kiss in her bedroom, and
she still remembered the pure happiness of that moment,
but then a boy from another school had given her a love
letter at the station, and—
“Hang on,” Takao interrupted.
“What?”
“Look, most kids don’t want to hear about their mom’s
kisses. When Dad gets home, tell him about it. And you
really need to drink some water so you can work tomorrow.
You’ve been drinking a little too much today, Mom.”
After his rant, Takao stood from his chair and was
preparing to escape to his room when he noticed his
mother had fallen silent. Her eyes were red, and the liquor
wasn’t why. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, and he noticed that
her voice seemed dark and melancholy around the edges. “I
was trying to say that in middle school, you’re basically
already an adult. You know things can get complicated.”
Takao had a bad feeling about this. His mother was still
just a couple of years over forty; her hair softly framed her
face with its loose wave. She was wearing a pink sleeveless
blouse, and tears were pooling in her large eyes. Even to
her son, she looked very young.
“Your dad and I have decided to get a divorce.”

That night, Takao had his first drink.

In the dead of night, he crept into the kitchen alone, lit
only by a yellow night-light. He popped open a can of his
mother’s beer, complaining to himself the whole time. Are
you kidding me? Gimme a break! His mother had told him
they’d waited for his big brother to find a job and for Takao
to start middle school. “You’re both adults now, so I know
you’ll understand.”
Are you kidding me?
He chugged the beer noisily. Gluck, gluck, gluck. The
pungent smell of alcohol almost made him spit it out, and
his eyes were tearing up, but he forced it all down. What
the hell? This is nasty. But he put the can to his lips again.
Sure, my brother’s an adult. He was feeling queasy now.
We’re eleven years apart. But I’m—just in my first year of
middle school. We aren’t adults.
“God, what the hell? Couldn’t you wait three more
years?”
He didn’t have any solid grounds for thinking so, but
first-years in high school were probably adults. Meaning if
this had happened three years from now…, he mused
through the dull ache beginning in his head. But middle
schoolers are kids. Everybody knows that.
He felt like he was going to die, but he still emptied two
cans of beer, then cut shochu with cold water and drank
that, too. It smelled even worse than the beer. Still, the
alcohol put Takao to sleep that night. The next morning, of
course, he had a roaring hangover, and he ended up
skipping school. Another first.
He felt dirty.
“So, Fujisawa, you’re really Akizuki?”
“I guess. My mom’s the one who has custody.”
It was December of his first year in middle school. Takao
had only just managed to grow past five feet, but Miho
Kasuga, who was walking beside him, was still half a head
shorter. She was conscientiously wearing their school’s
designated duffle coat, even though it wasn’t a school day,
and her twin ponytails only deepened her resemblance to
an elementary schooler. As for Takao, the navy-blue down
jacket he was wearing was a hand-me-down from his
brother, but on his feet were a pair of leather sneakers he’d
spent forever picking out. They were umber and low cut,
and the leather still had an elegant luster to it even though
he’d bought them used. Their previous owner must have
taken good care of them.
“But you’re Fujisawa at school, right?”
“She probably thought that getting my name changed in
the middle of my first year would’ve been too rough on me.
They’re letting me stay Fujisawa until graduation, even on
the register. My mom was so proud of herself when she told
me about it.”
He bitterly remembered that it was all his mother had
actually done.
“What about your brother?”
“He’s with us, too. We don’t see him much now that he’s
working, though. He gets home late, and he leaves for work
before I get up in the mornings.”
He could sense Miho’s mood falling, but he pretended
not to notice and injected a bit more cheer into his tone.
“Look, that’s Meiji Shrine, right? Pretty easy walk from
Shinjuku.”
Against the buildings lining the four-lane road and the
weighty Metropolitan Expressway overpass, the contrast of
the forest looked like a bad Photoshop job.
 His dates with Miho Kasuga were always walks around
parks. Maybe dates wasn’t the word for them—after all,
they weren’t even officially a couple—but in any case, they
often spent their days off together. When they’d exhausted
most of the parks along their train route—Inokashira,
Shakujii, Koganei, Musashino, Showa Memorial—Miho had
suggested visiting the ones in the city center, too. Takao
hadn’t been particularly interested in nature when they
started, but he couldn’t spend money on movie theaters
and aquariums and the like every time they went out, and
Miho’s excitement over the flowers and trees was fun to
watch. Thanks to her, he’d learned the names of quite a few
birds and plants. Besides, Takao had grown up in the
colorless public apartments of Suginami; he wasn’t quite
over the discovery that there was anywhere this green in
metropolitan Tokyo. “I like these little places, with just
trees instead of houses or schools or trees,” Miho had once
told him in a carefree sort of way. Even if he didn’t say it,
Takao thought she was more of an adult than he was. At
least she knew what she liked. He doubted many others at
school did. He certainly didn’t.

“It’s so warm,” Miho said, holding a plastic cup in both

hands.
They’d wandered all over the vast precincts of Meiji
Shrine together, taken a picture standing side by side in
front of the big torii gate, read the prayers written on the
ranks of votive tablets that hung outside the main hall, and
even lined up to visit Kiyomasa’s Well. All the activity had
left them exhausted, and now they were sitting side by side
on the dry grass, drinking coffee with milk that Takao had
brought in a thermos. The cold winter air was clear as the
sound of a bell, and the sugar in the hot, creamy coffee was
pleasant on his tongue.
For the past few months, he had felt like a child lost at
the supermarket—anxious and lonely. His only respite from
the constant anxiety and loneliness was the time he spent
with Miho, when those feelings disappeared like magic.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky that December afternoon;
the blue, transparent canvas overhead was full of light.
Beyond the bare tree branches, the lines of the white
Docomo Yoyogi building were perfectly straight, as if it had
been cut out of the sky. The chill of the winter earth that
rose from the grass to the small of his back was equally
balanced by the warmth of the bright sun and by Miho’s
body heat as she leaned lightly against his arm.
Girls are so soft.
The moment he became conscious of the sensation, he
wanted nothing more than to hold Miho tight and never let
go.
Then, before he knew it, before he could even think,
Takao had kissed her on the lips. The contact didn’t even
last a second, but the euphoria of that moment sent a thrill
of delight all the way down to his toes.
And then he remembered what his mother had said, and
everything turned to ice. “I still remember how happy that
kiss made me. It was my first year of middle school…”
“—Let’s go home.”
The irritation had taken over so suddenly that even he
was startled, and before he even noticed the words leaving
his mouth, his feet were carrying him away. Out of the
corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Miho, still sitting
in shock, but his rapid strides did not slow.
“Huh? Hey, Fujisawa, wait just a minute!”
You need to tell her you’re sorry now. You should stop.
You should wait. The thoughts were in his head, but they
didn’t transfer to his body. Hastily grabbing the thermos
Takao had abandoned, Miho ran after him until her head
was alongside his shoulder.
“Hey, what’s wrong? What happened?” She looked up
into his face, worried. It made him shut down even harder.
 He walked briskly and silently back down the road
through the park toward Shinjuku Station. Petite Miho
almost had to run to keep up; he could tell from the sound
of her footsteps. Even without turning around, Takao was
painfully aware that she was about to cry. The shadows of
the trees along the street streamed under his feet, blurring
together one after another. Before he knew it, black clouds
had filled the sky; the sun had set behind the buildings, the
streetlamps had begun to glow, and the temperature was
coming down.

They reached the South Gate of Shinjuku Station in less

than half the time it had taken them to reach the shrine.
Once they were there, Takao finally turned to Miho. She
held the thermos out to him, and he awkwardly took it.
“…Thanks. Sorry,” he said with some difficulty, staring at
the floor by her feet.
“Mm-hmm…” Miho’s response sounded like a sigh. That
was when Takao noticed her shoes, a pair of low heels with
ribbons on them. She was holding one heel off the ground.
Had he made her get a blister? There was a faint sheen of
sweat on Miho’s forehead; once her breathing had slowed a
bit, some of the strength returned to her voice.
“I was glad I got to see you today, Fujisawa… It had been
a little while.”
It was evening, and the crowds in front of the ticket gate
were getting even denser, surrounding them with
thousands of conversations and footfalls.
“Will you be coming to school tomorrow?” Miho’s
question sounded a bit like a challenge.
Takao didn’t know how to answer; he kept staring at the
floor. The temperature had fallen a little further again. His
toes were cold. He was pretty sure Miho’s were even
colder.
“…You know, you’re not the only one who thinks you’ve
got it worse than everybody else. It’s pathetic.”
Startled, he looked up. For a moment, he thought the
words had come from a passing stranger, but Miho was
glaring at him with tears beading in her eyes. I have to say
something, Takao thought. But what was there to say…? He
struggled desperately to find the answer, as if this were a
test and he had only one minute left on the clock, and he
grabbed the first one that came to mind.
“It’s got nothing to do with you, Kasuga.”
His voice was shaking a little, and he was surprised by
how childish his own words sounded. But Miho didn’t
flinch.
“You’re right. It doesn’t. But Fujisawa, there must be ten
kids in each grade with divorced parents. It’s nothing
special, like, at all, and sulking over it like this just makes
you look dumb.”
Takao’s face flushed bright red before he even identified
the feeling as shame. He stared at Miho in disbelief. Who
on earth was this slight girl in front of him?
“If you don’t want to come to school, you’re free to skip.
But don’t think you’re making some sort of statement. I
thought you were mature, Fujisawa, but I was dead wrong.
You don’t even know how to treat people!”
Stunned, Takao gazed at the tears spilling from Miho’s
eyes. The Miho I know, the one who walked miles and miles
with me, would never have said anything this forceful, he
thought. She can see everything I’m feeling, and what have
I seen about her?
Miho looked down, then walked away with a quiet
parting shot.
“—And after you finally worked up the nerve to kiss me,
too.”
Her small form passed through the ticket gate and
rapidly vanished into the crowd.
 He walked all the way home from Shinjuku, about two
hours. The idea of taking the crowded outbound train was
too much for him right now. It had started to drizzle soon
after he set out, and by the time he passed Nakano, it was
raining in earnest, but Takao just bowed his head and kept
going. The rain was on the cusp of turning to snow, chilling
him to the point of pain, while his too-new sneakers made
friction sores on his feet. The pain was oddly comforting,
and he wasn’t sure how to feel. He almost hoped he’d get
lost for real, although he knew it couldn’t possibly count as
punishment. Even so, when the public apartment building
began to come into view beyond the rain, illuminated by
the streetlights, Takao was so relieved, he almost burst into
tears.

It wasn’t a workday, but no one was home when he got

back.
But that was nothing new these days. His brother
worked late on the weekends as well, and his mom was
probably off on a date somewhere with some random
middle-aged guy.
After a cursory rubdown with a bath towel, he changed
clothes. Then, still freezing and emotionally overwhelmed,
Takao crouched down in the entryway and opened the shoe
rack.
A multicolored assortment of women’s shoes reflected
the light dully, like shells with curious shapes on display in
a museum. Orthodox brown mules, dressy open-toed black
heels, ankle boots and knee-high boots, sneakers with
chunky soles that seemed too young for her, mustard-
colored wedges, deep-purple high heels—every pair in the
rack was one his mother wore frequently during winter
alone; there were easily five times this many shoes in the
hall closet, stuffed into boxes. Takao started taking pairs off
the rack, putting shoe trees into the ones that didn’t have
them, using a brush to dust them off as best he could when
his hands were shaking with cold, working an emulsifying
cream into shoes that needed it, then polishing them with a
cotton rag. He was used to this work, and little by little, it
calmed him down. The heater finally began to warm up the
room, and gradually, his shivering subsided.
His mother loved shoes, and maintaining them had been
Takao’s job since he was very young. As a grade schooler,
Takao had been fascinated by women’s multifarious shoes
the way other kids his age loved model trains or robots. His
feelings toward his mother were completely different from
what they had been back then, but this habit still relaxed
him. When he focused on shoes, he could clear his mind
completely.
That was why Takao didn’t hear the approaching
footsteps, and he didn’t realize his brother was home until
the door opened with a heavy metallic clank.
His brother, who was wearing a loose overcoat, startled
when he saw Takao in the entryway. “I’m home,” he
murmured curtly, folding his umbrella and taking off his
leather shoes. Snow slid from the umbrella and plopped
down right in front of him. “Yeah,” Takao mumbled, edging
closer to the wall without looking up. The standard return
greetings used to come easily to him, but now the words
wouldn’t come out.
After he had finished polishing and was closing the shoe
rack, he heard his brother’s contemptuous voice. “You’re
still doing that?” His suit had been replaced with a hoodie,
and he held a can of beer in one hand. Takao felt as if he’d
entered some stranger’s house without permission.
“It’s nothing… I just felt like it,” he answered awkwardly.
“You’re such a weird kid, you know that?”
The moment he heard the words, a violent impulse to
yell welled up inside him, but he didn’t know what he
should yell or whom to yell at, so he swallowed it all down.
It was just like the beer; swallowing just brought tears to
his eyes. As his brother receded into the living room, he
could see Miho disappearing through the ticket gate and
his father walking out the door. Everybody turns into a
stranger with me.

“That’s what I mean by acting spoil……take this?!”

Somewhere in his aching head, his sodden brain, he

heard snatches of what sounded like an argument.

“…running away because you can’t handle……he’s still

just a kid…”
“What about me?”
“You think I don’t feel like crying, too?!”

Heavy footsteps, striding across the floor, then a sharp

bang! as the sliding door slammed shut.
When he opened his heavy eyelids a crack, the light
streaming in only made his headache worse. Blurry as she
was, he saw his mother sitting across the table from him.
Her elbows were on the table, her face was buried in her
hands, and her shoulders were shaking.
“…Are you crying?” Takao asked in a small voice.
His mother raised her head, smiling at him, her mascara
streaked and running.
“You’re crying, too, silly.”
And Takao realized his cheeks were wet. …Oh, right. I
didn’t want to go back to our room with my brother, so I
was in the kitchen drinking Mom’s shochu, and I fell
asleep.
“Cut that out already. If you drink any more of my liquor,
I’m gonna start charging for it.”
“Ha-ha.” Laughing made his head throb. You were the
one who offered it to me, remember? Dimly, Takao
remembered that there was something he had to say to her.
“…Mom.”
“Hmm?”
“You guys got divorced three years too early. I’m still a
kid.”
When his mother heard that, tears welled up in her eyes.
She smiled and looked down to hide it.
“Oh, I know, Takao. I’m sorry.”
The heat of his own tears on his cheeks was almost
pleasant as Takao slipped back into a drunken sleep.

Takao’s worries proved to be unfounded. When he went to

school again for the first time in two weeks, none of his
classmates gave him strange looks. The most he got was
“Hey, you showed,” from his guy friends and “Oh, Fujisawa.
It’s been a while, huh?” and some laughter from the girls.
Even the teachers only gave him a brief warning not to skip
again when they took attendance. To Takao, all the
reactions were more embarrassing than reassuring.
During lunch, he went to the third-years’ classroom and
looked for Miho Kasuga. He didn’t find her, and after
school, he looked again to no success. He wondered if he’d
made her catch a cold.
He’d already decided what he’d say when he saw her.
First, he’d apologize for the incident at the park. After that
—he’d tell her about his decision. He wouldn’t be able to
manage it right away, but he would become an adult by the
time he changed from Fujisawa to Akizuki—by the time he
graduated from middle school. More specifically, he’d stop
drinking and skipping school because he was sulking and
wanted somebody to pay attention to him. He’d know what
he was looking for, and what he wanted to say to whom, the
way Miho did. And he’d tell her that he wanted to go
walking in parks together again, if she did.
 Eventually, he gave up and decided to try again
tomorrow, and he was headed for the school gate when he
passed a girl he recognized. She was a third-year student
he’d seen with Miho a few times.
“Um, excuse me.”
“Hmm? You’re Fujisawa, aren’t you.”
“Huh? How did you know my…?”
“You talked to Miho sometimes, didn’t you? She told me
about you, too.”
“…I see. Um, was Kasuga not in school today?”
The girl looked at him with confusion that gradually
turned to pity.
“You mean she didn’t tell you?”

That was when Takao learned that Miho’s parents had

divorced, and she’d already moved away.

He didn’t have a cell phone, so he had no way to contact

her. Miho was two years older, so he didn’t know what
she’d seen in him, or wanted to see. After he learned the
news, he asked Miho’s friend to send her one brief text
from him.
I’ve decided to grow up, it said.
It was several weeks before he received a response,
again through the friend:
Give it your best, Takao Akizuki.

***

He’s on the far side of the bridge, and the sound of the rain
changes slightly yet again.
He can hear the rustling of the leaves, which is louder
than the splashes on the water. The clear twitter of a
mountain white-eye twines around the noise of his
moccasins slowly compressing the soil. He can see the
surface of the water beyond the black pines, reflecting the
pink of the azaleas, the red bark of the umbrella pines, the
dazzling green of the maple leaves. A large-billed crow
calls assertively in the distance. Come to think of it, Miho
taught me their names long ago, Takao remembers. The
memory feels like a distant light, and he has to squint
against it.

From the far reaches of the sky, another rumble reaches

his ears.
The thunder whispers.
The phrase abruptly surfaces in Takao’s mind, then
vanishes.
What was that? Had he heard the words somewhere? He
can’t even remember the phrase itself now, although it was
in his mind only a moment ago. Something like a
premonition quietly fills him.

Beyond the wet maple leaves, the arbor where he always

shelters from the rain comes into view. But it’s already
occupied. Takao steps closer, but he feels as if he’s seeing
something that shouldn’t exist. The veil of leaves falls
behind him, revealing the whole structure.
The intruder is a woman in a suit.
Takao stops in his tracks.
The woman is holding a can of beer near her lips, and
her soft hair is trimmed evenly above her shoulders. She
casually glances his way. For just a moment, their eyes
meet.
In that moment, for no reason, Takao thinks, The rain
might stop soon.
 Urasaburu / kokorosama neshi / hisakata no ame no
shigure no / nagarau mireba
(Man’yoshu volume 1:82)

Translation: Forlorn thoughts / fill my breast / when I see

cold rain streaming / from the vast, endless sky
Context: One of the three poems that Nagata-ou
wrote at the spring of Yamanobe during April of
year 5 of the Wadou era (712), when he was sent
to Itsuki no Miya in Ise. Itsuki no Miya was the
palace where unmarried imperial princesses
lived when they were sent to the Ise Grand
Shrine to serve. The word shigure technically
refers to the cold rain that falls from autumn to
early winter, and it doesn’t match the season in
which the poem was written. The cold shigure
rain falling on his journey to Ise echoes the
anguish in his heart.
 CHAPTER TWO

Soft Footsteps, a Thousand Years Unchanging, Everybody

Has Their Quirks.
—Yukino
When she looks up at the sound of soft footsteps, she sees a
boy standing under a vinyl umbrella.
For just a moment, she accidentally makes eye contact.
Yukino looks down, finding it odd that she didn’t notice him
until he was so close. Maybe it was because she was
listening to the rain.
Hesitantly, the boy steps into the small arbor where
Yukino is sheltering from the weather. It’s unusual for
someone like him to be visiting the park on a weekday
morning. He seems fairly serious—he’s even wearing his
uniform. A high schooler? Probably. Paying to get into a
traditional Japanese garden is a pretty highbrow way to
skip school. She gets up and moves to the back of the arbor
to give him room. The boy ducks his head politely, folds his
umbrella, and sits down at the far end, making the wooden
bench creak faintly.
The heavy May rain is falling straight down. Around
them are the cool, comfortable-sounding calls of birds, the
rain drumming on the roof and dripping from the eaves,
and the quiet, gentle scratch of a pencil skating over a
notepad. For a while now, the boy has been writing
something in a notebook. He doesn’t have a textbook open,
so he probably isn’t studying, but—Yukino is vaguely
relieved that he isn’t the type to listen to music.
The L-shaped bench is small, only about six feet square,
but even at opposite ends of that small space, it’s odd how
small a distraction they are to each other. This’ll work, she
thinks, raising her open beer can to her lips again. Alcohol
isn’t allowed in this park, but oh well. The kid probably
wouldn’t care. After all, they’re both skipping.
All of a sudden, with a small, startled “Ah!” the boy drops
his eraser. It bounces toward Yukino, rolling to a stop by
her foot.
 “Here you go.” She holds out the eraser she’s picked up.
“Oh, thank you!” Hastily, the boy half stands to take it.
His voice is young, a teenager’s voice, and somehow
pleasant. She smiles.
The boy goes back to work on whatever he’s writing in
his notebook, and Yukino realizes she’s beginning to feel a
burst of energy for the first time in quite a while… Over
something like this. Which is strange, because she was
about to write today off as a bust the same way she has
every other day in the recent past. Weird, she thinks, taking
a mouthful of beer and gazing out over the rainy garden
again.
The rain has been falling with a steady intensity for a
while now. When she stares at all the different shapes of
the pine trees, they begin to look like enormous vegetables
or the silhouettes of strange animals. The sky is uniformly
gray, as if someone has put a lid right over Tokyo. The rings
of ripples expand across the pond, one after another,
meeting like an endless conversation. The sound of the rain
on the roof is like a clumsy xylophone performance, with a
rhythm that you can almost count out, but not quite. Heh,
just like me. I really have no sense of rhythm. My mother
could play the piano, and she was good at singing. Wonder
why I suck at music so much? When she was a child,
everyone else in her class had played the xylophone so
smoothly, it was enchanting. The way their fingers had
moved on their recorders was like magic. Come to think of
it, why is everybody in the world so good at karaoke? Why
do they know so many songs, and how can they keep right
on singing with no hesitation? They don’t teach you
karaoke in school. No special classes for it. Does everybody
secretly train on their own? He took me to karaoke
sometimes, too, but—
“Um, excuse me…”
The boy abruptly speaks to her, and she answers with a
startled “Huh?”
 “Have we met somewhere before?”
“Mm? …No.” What? Where did this come from? Is he
trying to pick me up? …In a school uniform? Her reply is a
little stiff.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were somebody else,” the
boy says awkwardly, looking down in shame.
The sight reassures Yukino. “It’s all right,” she tells him,
warmer this time. His excuse is genuine, she can tell.
She takes another swallow of beer. Another soft rumble
of thunder sounds in the distance, like a gentle nudge. With
the can still to her lips, Yukino steals a glance at the boy.
His hair is cropped short. He has a clever-looking
forehead, and his eyes and eyebrows seem slightly
obstinate. Their exchange a few moments ago seems to
have embarrassed him; his cheeks are still a little flushed.
There’s something oddly mature about the leanness of the
area between his ears and his neck. On his slender frame,
he wears a dazzlingly bright white uniform shirt and a gray
vest…
Hmm? Yukino thinks.
She’s a little startled, and a tiny gasp slips out. Oh, I see.
That explains it. A mischievous impulse spreads through
her, like watercolor paint dripped onto the surface of a
puddle.
“—We may have met, actually.”
“Huh?”
Startled, the boy looks at Yukino. More distant thunder,
as if to fill the pause. The word narukami, “roar of the
gods,” drifts into her mind. Smiling slightly, Yukino speaks
quietly.
“‘The thunder whispers…’”
Picking up her bag and umbrella, she stands up.

“‘…and clouds darken the sky. / If rain should fall, /

would you stay with me?’”
 Before she finishes the poem, she’s begun walking. She
puts up her umbrella and steps out, and it becomes a
speaker wrapping her up in the sound of rain. She feels the
boy’s stunned gaze on her back, but she keeps walking
anyway. I wonder if that gave him a clue. Heh-heh! she
thinks as she crosses the little stone bridge, heading for the
park’s entrance. He probably can’t see me anymore
through the trees. Today was kinda fun. Even as she thinks
that, a realization hits her: Oh. Today’s nowhere close to
over. Slowly, her vivid feelings sink back into gray.

***

It had happened when Yukino was in middle school, during

her classics class.
As an introduction to tanka poetry, one poem each from
the Man’yoshu, the Kokinshu, and the Shin Kokinshu had
been printed in her textbook. Of these, for reasons she
didn’t understand, thirteen-year-old Yukino’s eyes had been
drawn to the poem from the Man’yoshu.

As the meadow glows with predawn light / from the east

/ I turned / and glimpsed / the setting moon.

Even before she could think about the poem’s meaning,

the textbook’s black type dissolved, replaced by a purple
dawn sky on the horizon of a plain. When she turned to look
across the landscape, a white moon hung in the
ultramarine sky like a drawing, all alone above a mountain
ridge. It was the first time printed letters had ever created
such a clear, evocative image in her mind. What in the
world…?! As she sat there, stunned…
“I bet it was a view like this one.”
…her teacher’s gentle voice drew her back to class. Ms.
Hinako picked up a piece of chalk and began cheerfully
drawing a picture on the blackboard—the small silhouette
of a man on horseback. Around him was a sky tinted with a
gradation of pink, yellow, aqua, and deep blue. Finally,
using white chalk, she drew in a tiny moon. Yukino felt
goosebumps on her skin from head to toe. That’s exactly
what I saw!

When she told Ms. Hinako about it in the art room after
school, the teacher yelped with excitement like a little girl.
“What?! Oh wow! That’s incredible! Maybe Hitomaru
possessed both of us at once!”
“Gah, occult stuff,” said the boys in the art club.
“We knew Ms. Hinako was pretty close to the edge, but I
didn’t know you were into that, too, Yukinon,” the girls
teased.
“No, no, I was just startled,” Yukino told them, pouting.
Everyone stared at her, and a moment later, a faint sense of
hostility rose from the group.
Oh, not again, Yukino thought hopelessly, but Ms. Hinako
broke in with a very teacherly voice.
“Even after a thousand years, people never change.
Don’t you just love the classics?”
The students responded with various comments (“Well
yeah, maybe” and “Still a tough class, though”), and Ms.
Hinako gave a gentle chuckle. Everything stayed smooth
and amicable. The low evening sun that came in through
the windows brought Ms. Hinako’s plump silhouette and
the students’ uniformed figures into sharp relief, as if they
were in a painting. Feeling relieved, Yukino thought, She’s
right. Ms. Hinako not only saved me again, but she just
knows how to put things into words. She’s so, so fantastic.
She felt as if one more cog had clicked into place in the
blank space between her and the world. Ms. Hinako always
saves me, over and over.
Throughout her childhood in Ehime Prefecture, Yukino had
been more beautiful than any of the people around her, and
that beauty generally brought her misfortune.
She was so lovely, it was unreal, even bizarre. No matter
where she went in her little town among the mountains and
ocean and rice paddies and reservoir ponds and tangerine
groves, she drew unwanted attention. The double takes
every time she passed someone on the street were painful
to her. Was her face really so strange? As a young child, the
idea had worried her very much.
In her sparsely populated elementary school, her
distress was even worse. When she lined up with her
classmates, her head was unnaturally petite and dainty; her
limbs were long, pale, and so slender they seemed
alarmingly fragile; her delicate features could have been
someone’s intentional handiwork; her eyes were especially
large and double-lidded; her irises were a gleaming,
mysterious black; and her long, pensive eyelashes were so
thick, it seemed you could rest a pencil on them. Her timid,
frightened comportment was interpreted as a strangely
mature sensuality that only drew more attention to her.
Like a ship with white sails floating on a vast gray ocean,
Yukino naturally drew the eye—even though it was the last
thing she wanted.
Yukino’s presence in a room would instantly change the
mood. The boys would get antsy, which would upset the
girls. Whether Yukino was using an eraser or serving school
lunches or drinking milk or getting an answer wrong, she
was unsettlingly picture perfect. And that uncanny trait of
hers meant all the teachers, without realizing it, tended to
speak to her more than to the others, and this isolated her
even further from her surroundings. To make matters
worse, she was clumsy and bad at things like gym and
music, and her anxiety didn’t help at all. She couldn’t even
walk straight across the balance beam or play the
castanets. No one would have cared about her little
mistakes if they had been another girl’s, but because she
was Yukino, it always left an impression. And now that they
had a justifiable reason to ostracize this alien, the children
didn’t even hide their whispers: She’s kind of a weirdo,
huh? Yukino lived with her breath in her throat, trying not
to attract the slightest bit of attention.

Ever since she’d started middle school and had first met
Ms. Hinako, Yukino had been desperately jealous of her.
She was a Japanese-language teacher in her midtwenties
with everything Yukino lacked: a plump, kind face without a
single edge in sight; a soft, round, and utterly huggable
figure; and a tranquil demeanor that put everyone around
her at ease. She also had a friendly, unaffected presence
that made everyone call her Ms. Hinako instead of Ms.
Ogawa.
She’s in perfect sync with the rest of the world, Yukino
thought. My looks set me apart from everyone, but Ms.
Hinako’s round face is like the embodiment of everything
good in the world. She wished over and over that she’d
been born with her teacher’s looks. Night after night, with
ridiculous gravity, Yukino visualized herself waking in the
morning to discover that she now looked like Ms. Hinako.
Before long, she realized with some astonishment that
Ms. Hinako could even blur the sharp contrast between
Yukino and her peers. Whenever the mood started shifting
because of Yukino, Ms. Hinako skillfully set things right
again. Whenever eyes began to focus on Yukino, she’d
casually interject—whether consciously or not—and the
gentle chiding would redirect everyone’s attention. Thanks
to that, even Yukino’s classmates were gradually adapting
to her singularity.
For all three years, Yukino wished that Ms. Hinako would
become her homeroom teacher. But luck was not on her
side, so instead she joined Ms. Hinako’s art club. It is no
exaggeration to say that the time she spent there was her
salvation. For what was very nearly the first time, school
stopped being agony for her. The shapeless school jumpers
still drew out Yukino’s beauty like a tailor-made outfit, but
it was in that club that she discovered the joy of talking
with friends her own age. All of this was thanks to Ms.
Hinako.
When Yukino thought of her, her heart ached with
longing, a feeling not unlike romantic love that could bring
her near tears. Ms. Hinako was her idol.

By the time she was in high school, Yukino’s beauty was

somewhat less startling to those around her. Of course, she
was an exceptionally beautiful girl in such a stylish uniform
—a madder-red ribbon, a mocha-colored blazer that
encased her rounded bosom, and a pleated tartan check
skirt whose length offered just a glimpse of her slim thighs.
She looked like one of the idol singers on TV, but at least
that was a familiar role for her looks to occupy. She was
now attending a prep school that required a trip by bicycle,
then train, then bicycle again—there were rumors that
there was “a total knockout” at her school. But her beauty
was simply different now, not abnormal. Another cog
clicked into place. Breathing got just a little easier.

“Boy, I haven’t seen you in ages, Yukinon. You’re a lot

more…human now.”
So said one of her fellow club members from middle
school when they met up in the art room at their old school
for the first time in two years. Ms. Hinako was being
transferred, and so the art club, alumni and all, was
throwing a farewell party for her over the weekend. The
weather had been rainy since that morning, and even with
the heater on, their breath was faintly visible in the old
building. It was a cheerful gathering, though, and the
enthusiasm of the thirty or so students created a
comfortable contrast to the cold cola on their throats.
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?! You saying I didn’t
look human before?” Yukino asked her as jokingly as she
could.
“Yeah, you were like somethin’ else entirely!”
The current art club members just laughed, unaware
that the girl was dead serious, until the other former
members started arguing back.
“No, really, y’all! That’s the truth.”
“Pfft! Whaddaya mean she ain’t human?” The middle-
school boys seemed to find this hilarious. They’d been
blushing and sneaking glances at Yukino for a while now,
but it didn’t create the same awkward tension as before.
Next to Yukino, Ms. Hinako peered at her warmly.
“It’s true, though. Yukino, you look so refreshed. It’s like
you just climbed out of the pool,” she said. She really does
understand everything, doesn’t she? Yukino thought
contentedly.
Darkness had fallen outside. With night on one side and
pale fluorescent light on the other, the rain-spangled
windows became mirrors that reflected the art club. The
middle schoolers began to split up into groups and head
home, until only five former students and Ms. Hinako were
left. When Yukino saw the pile of boxes behind her former
teacher, now empty of the gifts they had contained, it
finally hit her that Ms. Hinako was really leaving.
“If anything happens, y’all can stop by anytime,” Ms.
Hinako had told the club on graduation day, and the words
had remained in Yukino’s heart like a special message just
for her. As a matter of fact, she’d found excuses to visit her
old middle school time and time again.
“I’ll be at another school, but I’m not going too far. We’ll
see each other again,” Ms. Hinako said, but Yukino was
certain this was a permanent change. She stole a glance at
the teacher. Maybe it was the fluorescent lights, but she
looked rather tired and worn as she smiled and laughed
with her students. It worried Yukino a little as she
reflected, I’m much better now, I think—but back in middle
school, I was practically a stalker. I hunted her down
during lunch and after school and after club on days when
we didn’t have school, like a chick searching for its mother.
I would have gone back home to her apartment with her if I
could. When boys sneak around following me now that I’m
in high school—I get it. I really do. As she watched the
raindrops grow and trickle down the windowpanes when
the weight became too much, Yukino was reminded of how
her own feelings had swelled in her isolation. Of the
tremendous pain it had brought.
“There’s a poem called ‘Words of Rain.’”
When Yukino looked up from her reverie, Ms. Hinako
was watching her and smiling. Then her eyes slowly moved
across each of her other students, too.
“It’s one of my favorites. I remember that poem every
time it rains.”
She lowered her eyes slightly, reciting from memory.

I’m a little chilled because

I’ve been wandering in the drizzling rain
all alone
My palms, my forehead, are damp
When did I become so dark?
I’m leaning here like this
waiting for the lights to come on

As the words fell from her teacher’s plump lips, Yukino

didn’t even realize at first that her own mouth had dropped
open. “‘Outside, the rain is still faint and noiseless,’” she
continued, painting a vision behind Yukino’s eyelids of fine
rain falling over a city she had never seen. For some
reason, the voice of her beloved Ms. Hinako set her heart
trembling slightly, like a disquieting prophecy from the
distant future.

Telling me of a day,
of quietness, of hot noontides
I didn’t know, didn’t even wish for
the faint murmur of rain unexpectedly
shifts, like so, through various shapes
and as I listen to it,
someday I’ll sleep as I always do

***

Her alarm is ringing.

Eyes still shut, she closes her hand around her phone
and silences it. Morning already? she thinks in disbelief,
and when she opens her eyes a crack, her head throbs. It’s
like her blood is still full of last night’s alcohol, but she has
to get up. When she swings her feet onto the floor, her
stomach pain and anemia almost send her right down to
the floor. I need calories, she thinks. Picking up a chocolate
bar from the floor by her feet, she sits down on the bed,
strips off the foil wrapper, and takes two desperate bites.
It’s 6:04, and Yukino finally registers that it’s raining
outside.
…The faint murmur of rain. Telling me of a day I didn’t
know, didn’t even wish for.
Sure got that right, Yukino thinks. It’s exactly like that.
Every damn day.
She leaves her apartment and boards the old, clanking
elevator. On the third floor, a middle-aged man in a suit
steps on with a “Good morning!” that’s much too energetic
for such an early hour, and Yukino manages to muster up a
smile and return the greeting. “Good morning.” Even with
her eyes on the floor, she can feel the man staring openly at
her reflection in the glass of the elevator. It’s all right. He
can’t find any fault with me. A tight umber jacket with a
wine-red ruffled blouse underneath, black flared pants, and
two-and-a-half-inch pumps. Black hair in a short, tidy bob;
appropriate foundation; light lipstick that stays in the lines.
I’d be embarrassed to be you, with that worn-out suit and
the whiskers you missed when you shaved your chin and
uncombed bedhead. My nails are polished, and my nylons
make my legs trim and tidy. The helpless child from back
then is gone. I know what to do with my appearance now.
I’m doing everything right.
Cars come and go on rainy Gaien Nishi-dori, and the
colorful umbrellas on its sidewalks are walking silently in
the same direction. Yukino keeps pace with the rest of
them, and by the time she’s shaking out her umbrella at
Sendagaya Station, she’s already exhausted. Valiantly
resisting the urge to lean against a pillar and just sit down,
she fishes her commuter pass out of her bag and goes
through the automatic ticket gate. Blinking back tears, she
desperately climbs the stairs, reaches the platform, joins
the lines waiting for the train, leans on her umbrella as if
on a walking stick, and heaves a sigh of relief. I finally get
to rest my legs, she thinks. But the exercise has raised her
blood pressure enough to create a sharp pain in her head,
as if someone’s swinging a hammer around inside her skull.
A greasy sweat breaks out on her temples, and yet her
fingers and toes are as cold as ice. Her thin legs seem
ready to snap from fatigue. How could a ten-minute walk
from her apartment wear her out so completely? It’s
pathetic.
“Keh-heh-heh-heh!”
Yukino flinches and looks over to see who’s laughing so
rudely and finds a cheery pair of high school girls in short
skirts are gabbing away.
“A kalbi rice bowl?! For breakfast?!”
 “Well, we’ve got gym during second period today! My
mom barely gives me anything for breakfast. If that was all
I had, I’d pass out, I swear.”
“No, but like, nobody eats those anymore. There’s that
new panini shop by the shrine, remember? At least go
there!”
With each retort, they bat at each other like kittens
teasing with their front paws; in between jabs, they
dexterously swipe and tap their smartphones, laughing in
sharp bursts.
As Yukino listens to their conversation (“So, what, are
panini the next big thing?” “Yeah, nobody does pancakes
anymore.”), she’s impressed by their energy. They’re
having this much fun just standing on a station platform?
she marvels.
“The train bound for Shinjuku is arriving on track one,”
the speaker says in a monotone. Yukino’s willpower is
already near the breaking point, and all the little things at
once finally push her over the edge. Nausea works its way
up from the pit of her stomach.

Umbrella in hand, Yukino is walking through the

enormous national park that straddles the wards of
Shinjuku and Shibuya.
She didn’t take the train. She wasn’t able to. Before the
doors opened, Yukino dashed into the station bathroom and
threw up. It was agonizingly painful, as if her stomach were
being turned inside out, but almost nothing came up. Only
thick, stringy phlegm dribbled from her mouth. As she fixed
her tear-streaked makeup in the bathroom mirror, she
thought with some despair, I won’t make it onto the train
today, either. I knew I wouldn’t. Still, once she’d reached
that conclusion, a guilty relief rose inside her. She left the
station for the park, which was about five minutes away on
foot, and passed through its Sendagaya gate.
 The trees around her are drenched with rain, and they
shine with a green that seems to spill over from the inside,
a color unique to this season. Both the violent rumble of the
Chuo Line and the roar of the trucks on the Metropolitan
Expressway are gently attenuated into distant whispers
here. It feels like a reassuring blanket of protection. As she
walks along, listening to the rain drumming on her
umbrella, she imagines she can feel her earlier exhaustion
slowly washing away. She doesn’t care that her pumps are
getting muddy; the moist ground feels nice under her feet.
She crosses the lawn, takes the small path, almost like a
mountain track, that runs beside the Taiwanese-style
building, and enters the Japanese garden. Once again, no
one’s there yet. Relieved, she ducks under low-hanging
maples, crosses a small stone bridge, enters the usual
arbor, and folds her umbrella. Once she sits down on the
bench, she becomes aware of a heavy numbness creeping
through her, as if her whole body is low on oxygen. I need
calories. She opens a can of beer that she bought at the
station kiosk, gulps it down, then heaves a long, deep sigh.
The strength drains out of her until her heart feels ready to
collapse in a wet heap. Tears well at the corners of her eyes
before she can even grasp why. Today has only just begun,
after all.
“Of a day I didn’t know, didn’t even wish for…”
Yukino murmurs the words softly.

***

After the party, a handful of former students helped clean

up the art room, and by the time they were done, it was
around six o’clock. It was already dark and cold, and the
rain was still falling. By then, the cheerful mood of the day
had shifted completely into the melancholy of parting, and
after a round of tearful good-byes with Ms. Hinako, the
graduates headed back home. Yukino and Ms. Hinako
happened to be going in the same direction, so they were
left walking side by side under their umbrellas.
Between the happiness of being alone with her teacher
and the forlornness of wondering if this was the last time,
Yukino hadn’t been able to say anything for a little while.
Ms. Hinako was also unusually quiet. Yukino realized she
was the taller one now, and that made her even sadder, as
if her height were part of the reason her teacher was
leaving her.
A sudden, unbidden thought crossed her mind. This
won’t be the last time I feel this way. She hadn’t dated
anybody yet, but she was strangely convinced that it would
bring her this same kind of sorrow.
“Your place is across the tracks, isn’t it, Miss Yukino?”
As if she’d suddenly remembered, Ms. Hinako glanced
over toward the Yosan Line.
“Yes,” Yukino answered, her heart beating a bit faster.
“Not much farther, then,” her teacher said, and the
silence returned. The sounds of the teacher’s boots and
Yukino’s loafers echoed by turns. The black rain was falling
in straight lines down into the reservoir pond below the
guardrail. When the quiet became unbearable, Yukino
opened her mouth to say something, anything, but Ms.
Hinako quietly broke the silence a second before her.
“I’m not actually transferring. I’m quitting.”
“Huh?”
What? What did she just say? Yukino peeked under Ms.
Hinako’s umbrella to get a look at her face, but the
shadows were too deep.
“I won’t be teaching anymore,” Ms. Hinako said, a little
more firmly than before. “I’m sorry, Miss Yukino. I thought I
should tell you, if no one else.”
Huh? What does she mean? Yukino couldn’t seem to
truly process what Ms. Hinako was saying. Her feet were
just on autopilot now, carrying her forward. As Ms. Hinako
went on, she couldn’t tell if she was happy or sad.
“I’m pregnant, so I decided to move closer to my folks.”
Why? Yukino thought. Why hadn’t she said she’d gotten
married? Why hadn’t she said she was moving back home
with her parents? Why had she lied and said she was
transferring for work? These were easy things to
understand, but she also couldn’t understand them at all.
Suddenly, it was hard to breathe, as if someone had roughly
shoved her head underwater. The dominant emotion in her
mind was the terror of abandonment—whether it was for
her own sake or for Ms. Hinako’s or it was completely
unfounded, she wasn’t sure. Either way, she was so upset,
she was close to panic.
“Heh.” Ms. Hinako’s little huff was almost a laugh. It was
the same gentle voice that had always saved Yukino when
she felt the walls closing in. Why is she laughing? she
wondered, looking at her teacher again.
“Did I surprise you? I’ll admit, this wasn’t really what
anyone wanted. I know some hard times are coming. But
listen…”
This time, it was Ms. Hinako’s turn to look at Yukino’s
reaction from under her umbrella. A three-car train was
just passing on the Yosan Line, on the other side of the rice
paddies, and the yellow light from its windows softly
illuminated Ms. Hinako’s face. She was wearing that kind
smile Yukino loved so much, the one that had always
offered safety and encouragement. A hot lump welled up
from deep inside her chest.
“It’s all right. After all, everybody has their quirks.”
Oh, Ms. Hinako.
What did she mean, “It’s all right”? What did she mean,
“Everybody has their quirks”? Still walking forward, Yukino
started to cry. She stifled her sobs as best she could, but
her tears spilled over, dripping to the asphalt alongside the
rain. The medley of boots and loafers and raindrops
lingered in her ears for a very long time.
 ***

The sound of familiar footfalls breaks into her light doze,

and Yukino doesn’t even have to look up to know who it is.
That boy is standing there, just like last time, under a
vinyl umbrella.
He looks a little bewildered and a little angry, and Yukino
finds it rather cute.
“Hello.” She speaks to him first.
“…’Lo.”
His response is so unfriendly, she can practically hear
him thinking, Why is she here again? The boy sits down.
Keeping him in the corner of her eye, Yukino smirks. He
probably thinks I’m weird. But so are you, don’t you think?
You’re skipping school again. And to come here, of all
places.
The rain is drumming awkwardly on the roof. The boy
has apparently decided to ignore Yukino; just as he did last
time, he’s writing or maybe drawing something in his
notebook. Is he planning to go to an art school? Well,
makes no difference to me. Yukino decides to drink her
beer without bothering about him, either. She drains one
can, then opens a can of another brand and puts it to her
lips. If there’s any difference between the two, she can’t
tell, and she feels a trace of regret. Should’ve bought two
cheap ones in that case. Eh, whatever. Not like I had much
of a palate to begin with. She slips one of her pumps
halfway off, letting it dangle from her toes.
“Say…” Is she speaking to the boy because she’s a little
tipsy, or is she just bored? “Is your school on break?”
Yukino absently muses that the two of them might get
along, as if she’s instinctively picking out potential friends
from her class at the beginning of a new term.
The boy gives her a judgmental look and asks, “…Is your
company closed?” in a deflated sort of way.
 So he hasn’t picked up on anything. Boys sure are dumb.
“I skipped again,” she answers, and he looks just a little
surprised. Maybe you didn’t know, but adults skip out on
their responsibilities all the time.
The boy’s expression softens. “So you’re drinking beer in
the park before noon.”
They both snicker a little. He’s calling it like it is.
“You need to eat something. Beer all by itself isn’t that
great for you.”
“You know a lot about it for a high schooler.”
“Oh, it’s not me; my mom drinks…”
He sounds a bit too flustered. I bet he’s probably had
some himself. That’s cute. Yukino decides to tease him a
little more.
“I’ve got snacks, too.” She takes a whole bunch of
chocolate out of the bag and shows it to him. “Want some?”
she asks. She scoops up the boxes of chocolate with both
hands and scatters them across the bench. The boy flinches
back at the noise, just as she anticipated. Good.
“Aw. You just thought I was a crazy lady, didn’t you.”
“Oh, uh, no…”
“It’s fine.”
And it is; it really is. For the very first time, Yukino thinks
so from the bottom of her heart.
“After all, everybody has their quirks.”
The boy looks rather mystified. “…You think?”
“Yes.”
When she meets his eyes, her lips soften. A gust of wind
steps by to continue the conversation, and the young leaves
and raindrops all ripple at once. As the rustling whisper of
greenery surrounds them, Yukino suddenly realizes.
That rainy night…
What Ms. Hinako said, more than a decade ago…
For the very first time, she realizes her teacher wasn’t
fine at all. In an instant, everything is crystal clear to her,
as if the other woman’s heart has possessed her. She knows
exactly what Ms. Hinako was feeling as she desperately
held the weakening stitches of her heart together, as she
proclaimed that she wasn’t alone in her uniqueness. It’s
rising up before her as large as life. Earnestly defending
herself to a high schooler far younger than she—it’s exactly
what Yukino’s doing now.
Ms. Hinako, Yukino thinks, as if she’s begging for
forgiveness. We’re all sick before we know it. But show me
a “healthy adult” anyway. Who could pick one out of a
crowd? And hey, at least we know we’re sick. We’ve got it
better than most, right? It’s a prayer, or maybe a wish, as
desperate as her girlhood spent idolizing Ms. Hinako.

“I’m heading out.”

The boy gets to his feet. The rain has let up just a little.
“You’re going to school now?”
“I decided I’d only skip on rainy mornings.”
“You did, huh?” It’s rather funny—he’s strangely diligent
about his delinquency. “We might meet again, then.”
Then she adds:
“Just maybe. If it rains.”
As the boy reacts with some confusion, Yukino distantly
thinks, Apparently I actually want that.

Later, she learns that day was the official start of the
Kanto area’s rainy season.

Poem excerpt: Michizou Tachihara, “Words of Rain”

Narukami no / shimashi toyomoshi / sashikumori / ame mo
furanu ka / kimi wo todomemu
(Man’yoshu volume 22:2513) Translation: The thunder /
whispers, / and clouds darken the sky. / If rain should fall, /
would you stay with me?

Context: In the Man’yoshu, shimashi toyomoshi, translated

here as “whisper,” is written with the characters for
“small movement,” which can also be read as
“sukoshi toyomite.” Kaminari, or “thunder,” was
also called “narukami,” “roar of the gods,” and was
seen as a mystical object of awe. This is a poem by a
woman who wants to keep a man with her, although
he seems about to leave. Rain would prevent him
from going, so she wishes it would start suddenly.
The man’s poem in chapter 8 of this book is the
response to this poem.
 CHAPTER THREE

Leading Lady, Moving and the Faraway Moon, Teenage

Dreams Change in Three Days.
—Shouta Akizuki
“They say your dreams don’t even last three days when
you’re a kid, you know?”
The remark slips out after a sip of cloyingly sweet white
house wine, and I notice how bitter I just sounded. Dammit,
I’m drunk, I think as I swallow another mouthful of wine.
My throat is so dry.
Rika’s knife pauses, and she shoots me a disapproving
glare. Her eyes are big and dark and intense, and once
upon a time I fell for them. That’s why the warning in them
now makes me flinch.
“Meaning I’m still a kid? Or this your way of telling me
to get a real job?”
“No, I meant in general. Don’t think so hard about it…
It’s, you know, like advice from your grandma. Just in case.”
“Hmm…”
Rika doesn’t seem convinced, but even so, she looks
down and goes back to cutting her white sea bass. “What
do you mean, ‘grandma’? You’re twenty-six,” she grumbles
under her breath. She brings the fork to her mouth, dabs at
her lips with her napkin, takes a small sip of wine, then
eats another mouthful of fish.
As I eat a forkful of my own fish and watercress, I push
up the bridge of my glasses and steal a glance at Rika. The
flame of the candle glistens against the olive oil on her lips
in an oddly seductive way. Her slim fingers tear up some
bread; she elegantly uses it to soak up some of the sea bass
sauce, puts it in her mouth, chews for a while, then drinks
more wine. She’s so used to this.
I’m captivated, but at the same time, I feel a dull pain, as
though someone has reached into the soft, moist place
behind my ribs, near my heart, and is gently squeezing it.
Come to think of it, it’s always been this way. No matter
where we were, restaurants or concert venues or love
hotels, Rika always seemed to fit right in. On the other
hand, I never knew any of this stuff until I met her. Case in
point, I’m just now learning that it’s okay to use bread to
sop up the sauce on your plate when you’re eating at
French or Italian places.
I hook a finger into my necktie and loosen my collar just
a little. No matter what I do, I always end up getting
suspicious. I don’t want to think about it, but I can’t help it.
She’s still in college, so who would have taught her about
eating at restaurants? Probably a guy who’s older than me.
Was it her ex, the one she said was six years older? I guess
it could be one of the guests at the place where she works
part-time. Or maybe the middle-aged guy who’s the
director for her theater troupe. Was it before I started
dating her, or after?
“But how can you expect to make your dreams come true
without putting a lot of thought into it?” she asks abruptly,
just as I’m cutting into the veal main course, and it takes
me a second to realize she’s continuing our earlier
conversation.
“…It’s not so much about putting thought into it. It’s
more that whenever you talk about it, all I can see is how
much pain it’s causing you. I know work and school are
hard on you, but aren’t you a little too on edge? You started
acting because you liked it, didn’t you? If it’s still hurting
you…it makes me wonder.”
Even I don’t know whether this is a jab at Rika or an
attempt to smooth her feathers. The waiter comes by and
pours red wine into Rika’s glass, then fills mine. I realize
the rim of my glass is sticky and smudged with oil, while
Rika’s glass is still clean. Something’s different about the
way we’re eating. I take a big gulp of wine to disguise that
prickle of shame and make myself smile.
“Don’t push yourself too much. It’s hard to stick with
anything if you’re not enjoying it.”
“Here’s the thing about plays…” Rika’s face is
expressionless as she slowly washes down a bite of meat
with wine. “Our director once said that he’s never had a
desire to find fun or happiness in the craft. I know how he
feels. Of course I’d love to make a living as an actress, but
at the end of the day, I want to look back on my acting and
know I created something good. I want to find my own
unique mode of expression. I’m sure I won’t be able to
achieve that if I don’t push myself beyond my limits. I think
everybody in my theater troupe is like that.”
Looking back on her acting. Creating something good.
Her own unique mode of expression. My theater troupe.
Our director. The hand in my chest squeezes tighter. I hate
this; maybe it’ll go away if I get more drunk. I tilt my glass,
and an unfamiliar bitterness lingers on my tongue. I wish
this were shochu. Another mouthful. My throat’s still dry.
“…Must be nice, working so hard with all your buddies.”
My sarcasm is finally too obvious. Right afterward, I
mournfully think, Welp, so much for this date. To no one’s
surprise, Rika is glaring at me.
“I didn’t come here to fight, you know.”
“You’re the one who started it.”
“I did not. Just stop, seriously.”
“You want me to stop? It’s been ages since I last got to
see you, and you just…” You just keep talking about stuff I
can’t relate to. But I really can’t say that, so instead I drink
more wine. I can’t bring myself to eat any more meat.
Dessert’s going to show up after this, too; how the hell am I
supposed to pay for all this?
“What? If you’ve got something to say, Shou, just say it.”
“I don’t. Really.”
“That’s a lie; you’ve been so passive-aggressive these
past few minutes. We’re going to be living together, so I
don’t want any misunderstandings between us, okay? I was
really looking forward to seeing you today.”
I come this close to saying, Then look at me. I buckled
down today so I could leave work early, too. I’m the one
who found this place and made reservations, and I’m the
one who’s picking up the check. I want to hold on to this
beautiful, arrogant college girl four years my junior; I want
to passionately make my case to her, show her just how
much effort I’m putting in to earning the privilege of dating
her. But while I’m desperately repressing that impulse,
another comment escapes my mouth.
“Just thinking how nice it must be to eat on someone
else’s paycheck while you chase your dreams.”
Oh, I think hopelessly. I really should not have said that.
I’m braced for her to cry or get up and walk out, but Rika
only gives a small, inaudible sigh and looks down. She goes
on cutting her veal into small pieces and slowly, wordlessly,
putting them in her mouth. Every bite is like an accusation.
Since there’s nothing else for me to do, I keep drinking that
awful, bitter wine. She never asked me to reserve a pricey
restaurant, I know. She never put her foot down and
announced that she wouldn’t stand for a pub. I want her to
see me as an adult, so I always make the reservations
without asking her, and I always pick up the check on my
own. The dryness in my throat refuses to go away.

I first met Rika Teramoto two years ago. My coworker

Tanabe asked me if I’d buy a ticket to a play from him, and
I forked over ¥2,800 without giving it too much thought.
Plays weren’t my thing, so I must’ve been bored. It was a
Saturday, if I recall, and the place printed on the ticket was
somewhere in Shimokitazawa. I went down a narrow
stairway in a mixed-use building, doubting whether there
was even a theater here at all, got my ticket clipped by a
sullen receptionist, and went into the venue. The place
turned out to be about the size of a classroom and about as
gloomy. The stair-stepped seating area was lined with about
thirty floor cushions with no space between them, and I
spent the two hours of the play rubbing shoulders with
total strangers. I don’t know if I don’t appreciate plays or if
the play was just bad, but it didn’t seem the slightest bit
interesting to me. Actually, to be honest, it was so boring, it
almost killed me. The plot was something like “Lost
Generation–era high school students barricade themselves
in a classroom because society is unfair,” and I was
genuinely surprised that such a tedious story even existed.
But the young woman who played the lead made an
impression on me.
Wow, what a babe. Nice boobs and long legs. Watching
her may be enough of a return on my investment. But my
mental leering didn’t last long. At some point, the vivacity
of this petite woman running around onstage had
completely entranced me. The woman had so much energy
that I started wondering where she kept it in a slim body
like hers, and the way she moved wasn’t elegant so much
as wild and desperate.

When I told Tanabe my impressions, in a diplomatic way,

he very kindly set up a drinking party with this leading
lady.
“Actress might not be the right word for what she is; I
think she’s just a regular college kid who wants to be in
theater. I haven’t met her, either, but you see a lot of girls
like her,” Tanabe explained during our lunch break in a
soba shop near the office as he chewed on a piece of
conger eel tempura. Tanabe’s girlfriend had been in the
group longer than the girl had, or something like that.
Essentially, the spare ticket had changed hands several
times and had made its way down to me.
And that’s how the four of us—me, Tanabe, Tanabe’s
girlfriend, and the aspiring actress—ended up drinking
together in a private room of a Shibuya pub. I remember
having trouble deciding whether to wear my suit jacket or
not, so it must’ve been around the end of summer. It was
essentially a mixer party at a slightly upscale place, the
type where they arrange seasonal fish in bamboo baskets
and have you pick what you want. But Rika Teramoto
showed up in a very plain outfit—T-shirt, shorts, and wedge
sandals. It was vaguely reassuring.
“I’m Rika Teramoto. I’m from Osaka, but I moved to
Tokyo last year. I’m in my second year at university now,
and I’m in a theater group. Thank you very much for
coming to our play the other day!” Rika bowed politely. Her
speech was clear, but it still carried a trace of her home
accent. I liked it.
The second time we ate together, I invited her out one-
on-one. We made plans to meet for the third time before
that day was over. I don’t think it was even a month before
I had switched from “Teramoto” to “Rika,” and she had
switched from “Akizuki” to “Shou.” The suffocating
humidity began to abate, the leaves on the trees along the
streets were starting to change color, and by the time Rika
had begun wearing a peacoat, we were lovers.
Although we were in a relationship, I don’t know that I
could have told you if it made me happy or not. I was head
over heels for Rika’s strong-willed eyes and her lithe body,
but whenever I was with her, I found myself constantly
fighting a sense of inferiority I’d never even noticed before.
Her theater troupe was not, as I had initially imagined,
the grown-up version of a middle-school arts festival club.
Everyone there was serious, aspiring to be a professional.
The performances they held twice a year had to sell a
certain number of tickets, they streamed their practice
online once a month, and the troupe’s leader-slash-director
sometimes wrote scripts for late-night TV and radio
dramas. Rika herself had made guest appearances with
other troupes and performed as an extra in indie films and
commercials, and she sometimes modeled for photo shoots.
I never would have heard of those films in my day-to-day
life, the photos had been for local informational magazines
that introduced small businesses, and Tanabe hadn’t been
wrong when he said Rika wasn’t unique—still, as far as I
was concerned, her world was the world of “show
business.” She was barely an adult, and yet she’d come into
contact with far more people, and had built up a greater
variety of experiences, than I had in my years working. I’d
graduated from university and picked up a marketing job,
following the traditional path, while Rika’s world was
teeming with the sort of people I’d never met. Every time I
heard her gush about the events of “today’s shoot,” I felt a
faint pang inside me. It was a complicated form of pain—a
mixture of jealousy and inferiority and possessiveness and
pride.

“I’m home,” I mutter as I open the door to the apartment in

the old housing complex.
After dinner, I walked Rika to the Touzai Line platform
with all my drunkenness and discomfort in tow, then
returned to the JR station and boarded a train. Inside the
Sobu Line car were rows of ads for the smartphones my
company handles, and it depressed me even more. A soccer
player with unnaturally white teeth was holding up the
latest model with a ridiculous fake smile. After thirty full
minutes in that train, I got off at my local station, walked
another fifteen minutes back to my public apartment
building, and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. By that
time, I’d almost sobered up. I’d spent the whole way home
grumbling to myself: “I’m done with this. I’m done. I’m
done.” At first, I hadn’t known what I was done with
exactly, but the more I complained, the more the words
gave definition to the feeling. I just couldn’t handle it
anymore—the jealousy toward some middle-aged theater
troupe member I’d never even seen, the social requirement
to act mature and understanding, the silent judgment from
my boss for actually leaving the office on time so I could go
through it all yet again.
“Welcome back,” Mom calls from the kitchen. I change
out of my suit and into a T-shirt, wash my face and hands,
and go into the kitchen. She’s sitting at the table by herself,
drinking shochu. It feels like we haven’t seen each other in
a while. “Welcome back,” she says again, quieter this time,
and my “Yeah” in reply feels cold and brusque.
I don’t want to drink any more alcohol, but my hands feel
empty, and I end up opening the fridge and getting a can of
beer anyway. I open the pull tab and sit down across from
Mom. It’s blindingly obvious that we’re both in bad moods.
After a long and unnatural silence while we nurse our
drinks, it occurs to me that she’s even less emotionally
mature than I am, so I try to draw her out. “How’ve things
been lately?”
“Well, I’m drinking alone at home, so take a wild guess.”
I have no idea whether it’s work or romance or
something else that’s giving her trouble, and I grope
around at the back of my memory.
“Uh, what was his name again? Shimizu?”
“…Shouta, have you ever made the girl pay on a date?”
“Well, sometimes. My salary’s not that high,” I tell her,
but the truth is, with Rika, I always pay the whole bill.
Partly because she’s a student, but mainly to show off.
“Don’t lie. You’re so old-fashioned about this stuff.”
She points out my fib with incredible ease, which only
makes my mood worse. Instead of answering, I gulp down
more beer.
“Shimizu says he’s been having some trouble with work
lately. I think it’s the times being what they are, but for
about a month now, I’ve been covering the cost of our
meals and taxis.”
I’ve never met him and never want to, but Shimizu’s the
name of my mother’s boyfriend. Ever since she and my dad
split three years ago, she’s been living the life of free love,
and as far as I know, Shimizu’s her fourth guy. She’s forty-
seven, and he’s twelve years younger, a freelance designer
or something like that. I don’t know much about him, but I
am impressed. He’s been going out with a divorced, spoiled
woman with kids who’s twelve years older than he is for a
year now. On top of that, at thirty-five, he’s got the woman
paying for their dates. You’re really something, Shimizu.
That’s not sarcasm or anything like it; I’m genuinely
impressed.
After she’s run through some gripes about her job and
Shimizu, Mom seems to be feeling better. “How about you,
Shouta?” she asks. “Are you doing well? You came home
smelling like wine; were you on a date?”
Setting an impromptu beer snack (salted fish guts on
tofu) in front of her, I think for a little before I answer.
“Yeah, about that. I’ve decided to move out.”
“Whaaaaaaat?! When? Why, what for? By yourself? Who
with?”
“We’re still looking for a place, but it’ll happen by the
end of summer. We’ve got a bunch of reasons. This place is
a little far from work, for one thing, and it’s pretty pathetic
to keep living with my mom forever. Plus, I bet Takao could
really use a room of his own already. I’m thinking of living
near Gokokuji or Iidabashi or somewhere around there with
my girlfriend—Teramoto, from Osaka? I’m pretty sure I told
you about her before. I’ll introduce you one of these days.”
It’s not a lie that we’re considering moving in together,
but we’re nowhere near ready to introduce each other to
our parents. Saying something like that to my mother at all,
I was probably motivated by more than a little spite. She
doesn’t give me much of a reaction, though, and when I
check to see if she’s okay, the regret is instant. There are
tears in her eyes, and she’s biting her lip. Goddammit.
“What’s so pathetic about living with your mother?!
You’re paying for yourself and helping with the rent!
There’s absolutely no reason to be embarrassed!” Mom
yells at me out of nowhere, so forcefully she might as well
have hauled me up by the shirtfront. I blew it.
“No, like I said, it’s a pretty long commute to the office
from here.”
“It’s not much closer from Gokokuji!”
“Yes, but with her university—”
“She’s a student?!”
“Didn’t I tell you before?”
“That’s the first I heard of it! You can’t even justify that
to her parents!”
“I’ll call them.”
“Enough!” Mom stands up, cutting me off. “Then I’ll go
live with my boyfriend, too!”
With that, she snatches up my half-empty can of beer
and chugs it.

After my mother has drunk herself under the table with

tears in her eyes, I help her over to her futon. My little
brother went to bed ages ago; I step over him softly, so as
not to wake him, climb into my own futon, and finally heave
a deep sigh. It’s past two in the morning. What a long
waste of a night. Tomorrow morning, I have to head over to
a client in Chiba. The more I try to fall asleep quickly, the
less sleep wants to come.

I’m sorry about yesterday. I know you made time when

you were tired, Shou, and I hate that we didn’t have much
fun. The food was fantastic. Let me treat you next time.

The text from Rika comes while I’m on a Keiyou Line

train, returning to my office in Shiodome from the visit to
my client. My knees go weak the moment I read her kind
words, and I very nearly sit down on the floor. Right now,
I’m on my way back from learning our client chose a
competitor’s cloud-based software over ours, and half a
year’s worth of work has gone down the drain.
I’m in my fourth year in sales for a telecommunications
company, and that client is my treasure, the very first
customer I won all on my own. They’re a major all-around
retailer with supermarkets and convenience stores
nationwide; selling our product through them wholesale
would have been a spectacular achievement for the entire
sales team. Even our ever-cynical section chief has been
unusually enthusiastic about it, and he’s been backing me
up and pushing this deal even among my own colleagues…
And now that deal has fallen through. “We have a very
strong relationship with N. Corp, you see. We thought your
company’s proposal might have enough advantages to
outweigh it, so we stayed in talks with you, but it seems it
wasn’t meant to be this time.” The bearer of the bad news
was an oddly young manager, probably not much older than
me. That was when I realized all the blood and sweat and
tears I’d poured into this had been to help them negotiate
another company down, and my vision literally went black.
Rika’s text came at the perfect time, and I want to see
her right away. I can’t tell her that I just wiped out at work,
but if I could just see her face…if I could touch her hair,
hear her voice… If only she were here. I squeeze the ceiling
strap harder, and the image of a lifeline springs to mind.
As I type out the beginnings of a reply, though, an e-mail
comes in, and when I see the subject line, my pulse jumps.
It’s the daily business results report. Sometimes in old TV
shows, you see business bar graphs stuck to the wall; my
company sends out a similar daily report that covers a few
more angles. Gingerly, I scroll down through the text,
looking at the column for CORPORATE 1ST SALES DEPARTMENT,
3RD BUSINESS CONTROL DIVISION, SALES GROUP 2: SHOUTA
AKIZUKI. Twelfth place out of fourteen. Once I report today’s
fiasco to my section chief, I’m going to be dead last. On top
of that, I’ll end up dragging the entire team down.
 “You think you can just go out to dinner with a girl after
this?” I mutter aloud. Before I know it, my desire to see
Rika has wilted like a leaky balloon. I look down at the
lifeless storehouses streaming past below the elevated
track, up at the carefree blue June sky above them, over
the sports program commercial that’s showing on the LCD
screens over the doors. All of it is so ugly.

“Akizuki, let’s take off for today. Wanna go watch

Australia at that bar we went to that one time?”
“…Australia?”
“The final round of the Asian qualifiers. For the World
Cup. The soccer thing?”
“Oh…right. Sorry, I really do want to get these materials
put together by the end of the day, so I’m gonna work a
little more.”
Tanabe’s attempt at sympathy is just embarrassing. As
I’d expected, my section chief ripped me a new one for
losing to the competition. One full hour, right in the middle
of the floor, loud enough for everyone to hear. The chief will
snap every once in a while, but he’s a fair guy at heart, and
it’s rare for him to raise his voice that much. It was an
unforgettable reminder of how serious my blunder had
been. My whole body shook the way it had when I was a
new hire, and if I hadn’t been paying attention, I would
have teared up. By the time he hit me with the final blow
—“It was my fault, too, for letting you handle this”—and
released me, all my coworkers except for Tanabe had gone
home. It was probably their way of being kind. I seriously
wanted to quit then and there, but I kept myself focused on
the display on my own desk, gritted my teeth, and
concentrated on making up presentation materials for
another client. Even if I quit, I had no other prospects or
dreams to chase.
At eight o’clock, a put-upon security guard shoos me out:
“No overtime allowed today.” The streets are awfully lively
for the hour, maybe because of the Asian championship or
whatever it was. Crowds spill out to the street from every
bar, and businessmen who’ve taken off their ties and
students wearing the blue uniforms of the Japan team are
screaming and whacking their hands together in
semblances of high fives. God, just shut up. I want to eat
something, but I’d rather die than watch the soccer match,
so after wandering the streets for a while, I go to a stand-
up soba restaurant. It’s a straitlaced chain place that
always plays enka music, day and night. The only other
customer is a solitary taxi driver—no blue uniforms. With
some relief, I slurp a bowl of tempura-and-egg soba. Finally,
my first meal of the day.
My phone vibrates. I remember the reply I haven’t sent
to Rika yet, but the text is from my brother. I’m making
dinner. Are you coming home? What a conscientious kid.
I’ll have some. Be home in under an hour, I reply briefly.
Right now, I don’t want to talk to my coworkers or my
girlfriend or my mom or strangers, but at least my much-
younger brother isn’t so nerve-racking.

“I’m home. I bought some croquettes.”

I set them down on the table, fresh from the convenience
store. I don’t have to worry about work or Rika any more
today, I think, opening the fridge and taking out a can of
beer.
“Thanks. Dinner’s almost ready,” my little brother,
Takao, answers. He seems to be cutting up vegetables; he
doesn’t turn around.
“Thanks. Where’s Mom?”
“Ran away,” Takao says shortly. Dammit. Again? But with
the thought comes a sense of relief. I open the pull tab.
“Lucky us. We can go halves on the croquettes.” I take a
swallow of beer and remove my necktie, saying exactly
what I think.
“She said not to look for her in her letter. Are you sure
she’s gonna be okay?”
“Just leave her. You know she’ll fight with her boyfriend
and come back home.”
Once he’s living with her, not even Shimizu can last that
long.
Takao has made chilled Chinese noodles for dinner.
Double noodles. Great, I think, but I must have been
hungrier than I thought. We polish off both the noodles and
the croquettes in no time flat. One of the noodle toppings is
bitter melon; the fresh, clean taste reminds me of the
arrival of summer and is unexpectedly pleasant. This guy’s
still in his first year of high school, but sometimes he gets
surprisingly creative; he takes after Mom there. I must’ve
taken after Dad. I’m dull as a rock.
As Takao and I sit across the table from each other,
drinking our after-dinner roasted barley tea, I tell him. “…I
just settled on a place. I’ll be moving out next month.”
“By yourself?” he asks me.
“With my girlfriend.”
Of course, we haven’t settled on a place yet. I told Mom
I’d be moving out by the end of summer, and now here I am
saying “next month.” Even I don’t know why I’m lying to
Takao.

Half past one, very late at night. I washed dishes for two,
took a bath, went back to my room, thought about working
some more, then decided against it. That was enough for
today. I’ll be at the company tomorrow and the day after
that anyway. I’ll be there next year, too, and the year after
that, and ten years from now. I don’t need to do any more
today; it’ll keep for tomorrow. When I get into my futon and
lie down, I get another text. Whoever you are, you need to
leave me the hell alone, I think. I’m frustrated, but I open it
anyway.

Hi, Shou. I’m at work right now. It’s started to rain a

little outside. I guess the rainy season is almost here; it’s a
little depressing, isn’t it? I’ll text you again. Sleep well.

It’s from Rika. An image rises in my mind: She’s working

in a female-staffed shot bar in the red-light district,
wearing an outfit that reveals her curves and making
drinks for soccer-hyped office workers. She works four
shifts a week to cover her rent and theater group fees. I’m
well aware that she lives hand to mouth. In my mind’s eye,
I see her smiling under colorful lights, but I still can’t think
of a single letter of the reply I should text her. Rika must be
worried because I haven’t texted her back. I really should
send something. Anything, I think, but the thought feels
distant and disconnected. As I try to wring the words out of
my brain, I start to hear the faint, hissing noise of a rasp.
Our room is a traditional Japanese one, about a hundred
forty square feet, with a sheet strung down the middle as a
curtain. On the other side, Takao is still awake. Lately, my
kid brother has been obsessed with making shoes by hand.
The hobby is incomprehensible to me. Ordinarily, that
sound would help me get to sleep, but today, it really grates
on my ears. I can’t get my thoughts together. Fragments of
words cycle around and around in my head, carrying an
unpleasant heat.
My little brother and his inexplicable devotion to
shoemaking; Rika and her efforts to become an actress; my
mother, who’s playing for keeps with a middle-aged guy
who’s a full dozen years younger than she is.
What the hell is wrong with them? I think venomously.
They keep running hell-for-leather toward a goal they have
zero chance of reaching, as if no other place exists. All of
them. For the second time today, my eyes are welling with
tears. What a shitty day this has been.
I’m jealous.
But I could never say that aloud. Sniffling quietly enough
that no one will hear me, I desperately try to sequester the
feeling in my chest.

***

When I was a kid, I hated rainy days. It was probably

because I couldn’t use the athletic field or some reason like
that. Ironically, that’s the same reason I eventually started
to like rain. It’s like a conditioned reflex now; rainy
mornings always put me at ease.

In the morning, Takao is standing in the kitchen in his

uniform, packing box lunches. Lately, he’s been making
double portions. He’s probably got a girlfriend, but still, it
makes me want to tease him. After all, it’s usually the girl
who makes the lunches. Reaching in from behind him, I
snatch a cherry tomato and pop it in my mouth. “Hey!
Shouta!” he protests. High schoolers in love. I bet that’s a
fresh, clean-cut romance. The thought brings with it
another pang of jealousy.
It’s been close to three weeks since Mom ran away.
Frankly, the place stays neater without her around, and the
apartment feels roomier, more comfortable. If Shimizu can
keep her this long, he really is something. Maybe he’ll take
her off our hands for good, I think, opening my umbrella
and heading for the station. The throng of umbrellas are all
flowing in the same direction, as if in a race.
I work through my lunch break, munching on an energy
bar instead. Ever since I let that client get away, my sales
results have stayed at the very bottom of the heap. I don’t
care where I stand in the rankings anymore, but I don’t
want to be a burden to the rest of the team, and I also want
to start earning commissions to fund my move.
We haven’t talked about it in a while, so as far as Rika is
concerned, the idea of moving in together is probably off
the table entirely. I’m planning to keep quiet and move out
anyway, though, even if I’m on my own. And I want to make
sure my new place is big enough for two people. I don’t
know myself whether I want to live with Rika, and if this
keeps up, I get the feeling she’ll drift away from me. But all
that aside, I just want to make enough money to keep up
with the rent on an apartment for two. And all I can do
right now to help make that happen is acquire more clients
and propose appealing products. I’ve been working through
every spare moment I have, and yet my results haven’t
improved the tiniest bit. I remember this feeling from clubs
back when I was in school—the more practice I put in, the
more entrenched my slump gets. As I sip my iced latte—a
gift from Tanabe when he came back from his lunch—I
recall with some bitterness that my colleagues were
particularly nice to me back then as well. Outside the
window, the scenery blurs into the dark sky of the rainy
season.
When my desktop clock hits six thirty, I call out to the
rest of the office, “I’m taking off now. Good night!” and
leave. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the
section chief’s surprise, but he doesn’t say anything to me.
He knows I’ve been staying until it’s time for the last train
lately, often alone. The rain is stronger than it was during
the day, and it makes the city lights on the way to the
station even gaudier than usual.

“It hasn’t been that long since I last saw you, Shou, but
you’ve lost weight. A lot of weight.”
Looking up from the dessert menu, Rika sounds as if
she’s given this a lot of thought before speaking. The slim
gold bracelet I gave her a little earlier is gleaming on her
wrist. Its small crescent moon looks just as good on her
delicate arm as I thought it would—which may be why she
feels farther away from me than ever. A beautiful moon,
hopelessly out of reach. It occurs to me that maybe I should
have gone with something else.
“What, really? Bet it’s because work’s been so crazy
lately… I’m sorry I haven’t been able to talk to you very
much.”
“Don’t worry about that! I’m the one who should be
sorry; you’re already busy. You left work early, didn’t you?
Was it okay?”
“Oh, yeah, it was fine,” I answer on reflex. The waiter
has just come back to our table again, and I order dessert
for two.
Today is Rika’s twenty-second birthday and, as it turns
out, the first time we’ve gotten together since the French
restaurant. Since it’s such a special occasion, I cut into my
regular savings to buy a gift and make reservations at a
restaurant with a bird’s-eye view of the lights of Nishi-
Shinjuku. That alone burned through a month’s worth of
my food budget. To be honest, before we met up, I would
have said this birthday business was more of a nuisance
than not, but seeing her again after all this time, I
remember how dear she is to my heart, really. Rika is
wearing an unusually formal dress, made of a deep-blue
chiffon, with a black lace cardigan. Her makeup is more
pronounced than usual, and she looks mature beyond her
years. How have I not realized until now how many guys
she probably has chasing after her?
“I looked at a few apartments,” she says, while I’m
wincing at the sweetness of the chocolate dessert.
“What?” I ask. Between the distantly familiar song of the
live jazz group and the babble of multilingual conversation
around us, I wasn’t able to hear her well.
“Last week. Apartments. I looked at a few of them.” Rika
leans forward, repeating herself a little more loudly. “I have
photos. Wanna take a look?
“This one’s in Myougadani, built forty years ago. These
older buildings give you more space, and see, the hall
divides the rooms, so I thought it might be a good place for
two people.” As Rika explains, she shows me photos on her
smartphone, one after another. I give noncommittal
responses, surprised that the idea of moving in together is
still on the table. It’s a strange mixture of bewilderment
and delight to learn I haven’t been abandoned. “The sashes
at this one didn’t fit well. It might get chilly in winter, too,
but…I dunno, it just felt so nostalgic.” I notice that this
particular photo is of Rika standing in an empty living
room.
“…You went to see them with somebody else?”
“Oh, yes. I asked someone from my theater troupe who’s
done this moving thing quite a few times.”
Rika answers as if it’s nothing. The yellow glow of the
candle and the pale light of her smartphone illuminate her
face like something out of a movie against our darkened
surroundings, and suddenly it’s like I’m watching someone
else live my life from somewhere far away. Was it a guy? Is
he really a senior member of your theater troupe? I wonder
as I watch Rika’s slim fingers swiping through photos and
zooming in. I visualize the director or whoever he is, some
guy I’ve never seen, aiming a camera at Rika in a wide,
unfurnished room. And then the man is wearing the face of
the young manager at my client in Chiba, or my section
chief, who has the full trust of our team. I know it’s craven
of me, but I’m helpless to stop it. Trying to curb the ache
inside me, I swallow more wine.
On our way back from the restaurant, Rika can’t stop
talking at first. She talks about movies she’s seen lately and
her classes at university, and it’s clear that she’s noticed
my silence and is choosing harmless topics for my sake. But
after enough noncommittal responses from me, Rika
gradually speaks less and less.
 It’s a cool night for June. We’re walking huddled
together under a single umbrella so the cold rain won’t get
our shoulders wet. It makes the silence all the more
uncomfortable, and when we walk into one of the
underground corridors to the station, it’s a relief. I put a
little distance between myself and Rika. When I glance over
to the side, her slim shoulders look cold in her cardigan.
At the bottom of the stairs that lead to the Chuo Line
platform, Rika softly says, “I guess this is where we part
ways, then?”
It’s impossible to tell whether she’s saying good-bye or
hoping for an invitation. No, this is too much, I think. Today
is her birthday, after all. I’m treating her terribly, no
excuses. I’m castigating myself. I know what I should say:
I’m sorry. If you don’t mind, let’s go drink a little more.
Ordinarily, the words would be simple. But no matter which
bar I take her to now, I know it will just prolong the
discomfort. I have no idea what I should do, so I speak
without thinking.
“…Want to come to my place for a drink?”
“Huh?”
“My mom’s not home today. I have a brother who’s in
high school, but he’s pretty chill.”
As I watch, the cheer blooms on Rika’s face.
“…Are you sure?”
“Yes. As long as you don’t mind.”
“Yes, yes-yes-yes, of course!” She nods several times
enthusiastically. I’m startled, both by my own suggestion
and by the intensity of Rika’s response.

“Don’t you think peanuts or something would be good to

add?”
“Peanuts? Actually, yeah, it might go. People fry
cashews, after all. Let’s try it!”
“In that case, Miss Rika, would you slice the leeks?”
 “Sure. Hey, this garlic soy sauce is pretty good. Did you
make this yourself, Takao?”
“Yeah, I always make it when I don’t want to waste the
leftover garlic.”
“Ooooh, that’s incredible! You’re incredible!”
This is—What’s the word? …Surreal.
I take another sip of sweet potato shochu. In the
cramped kitchen at my place, Rika is standing beside my
little brother, wearing my mom’s apron over her dress,
while they’re cooking together and having a blast.
While I was changing out of my suit in my room, Rika
and Takao really warmed up to each other. They’re like
siblings, chatting noisily together. Maybe it’s Rika’s
candidness, or maybe it’s some side of Takao I never knew
existed. It’s a sight I’ve never even imagined. Surreal.
“Shouta, Rika says you’ve been going out for two whole
years? Why didn’t you ever bring her home?”
Takao’s tone is somewhat accusing as he sets small
dishes out on the table. They’ve made a sort of stir-fry of
little fish and leeks and peanuts. The grilled eggplant,
celery-and-cucumber salad, and spicy stir-fried konjac are
already on the table.
“Shut up already. You’re in high school; shouldn’t you be
in bed?”
“Huh?! Nooo! Takao’s going to keep me company while I
have my evening drink! Right, Takao?!”
“I’m not gonna drink, though,” Takao responds,
laughing.
“What, you don’t drink at all?” Rika pouts, and Takao
jokes back that he’s already over alcohol.
What’s with this guy? I think. How is he so used to
dealing with older women? It’s probably Mom’s fault.
Worrying about what this kid’s going to be like in a few
years, I reach toward a small plate with my chopsticks.
I have complicated feelings about it, but all the snacks
are delicious. And it’s that kind of “delicious” that settles in
far deeper than any expensive dinner dissected by silver
cutlery—although I quickly abandon that line of thought.
No way that’s true.
“Wow, a theater troupe. Has my brother been to see
you?”
“He only came that first time. Didn’t you, Shou?” Rika
teases, her cheeks flushed from the shochu.
We’re sitting around the table, eating beer snacks and
drinking. My conscientious little brother is sticking to cola
and barley tea, but he certainly knows how to make snacks
that pair exquisitely with liquor. Every time she tries a new
one, Rika is vociferously impressed. It makes it too easy to
keep drinking. We’re far more relaxed than we would be if
we were at a bar. Even though it still doesn’t sit quite right
with me, I’m forced to admit that this is fun.
“I bet Shou’s just not interested in me, that’s why.”
“That’s not true. I’m just… I’m…”
I hesitate. Rika’s gazing at my face steadily, expectantly.
There’s no way I’m going to be able to explain it well, so I
take a completely different tack.
“Y’know, I still remember the first time I went to see
Rika like it was yesterday.”
“Huh? What, what? What did you think? I’m actually
kinda scared.”
I’m the one who’s scared, I think through the haze of
alcohol.
“You mean it was love at first sight?” Takao looks oddly
serious.
“Nooooo, Takao, that can’t be it! That was a weird play; I
bet it freaked him out.”
“…No. You’re right; it may have been love at first sight.
Rika looked like she was from another world. I barely
noticed the others.”
“Wow, Shou, you’re really drunk!” Rika shrieks,
embarrassed; her face is even redder now.
“So love at first sight is real…” Takao nods sagely.
 I really am drunk if I’m saying all that out loud. Still, I
am the one who’s scared, I think again. I’m scared to go
see a play again and learn just how exceptional Rika is. I’m
scared to discover that her world is too far from mine. I
may be drunk and sleepy, but I can still feel it. Rika and
Takao’s cheerful voices sound so far away.

I’m on an athletic field in a drizzle, wearing a blue

uniform and kicking a soccer ball. My feet seem to pull the
ball to them, and I can move it any way I like. I feel as if it’s
a part of my body, and I’m entranced by the sense of unity. I
know exactly where the ball goes, what my future will look
like. There’s no anxiety or doubt. Before long, Dad comes
to pick me up, and the reassuring difference in our heights
shows me that I’m in middle school. As we walk back home,
I duck under his umbrella and out, kicking the ball.

“I think it might have been my fault that my brother quit

soccer…”
“Shou’s never said anything about that…”
I can hear faraway voices—Takao and Rika. I’m too
sleepy to open my eyes, but the voices keep growing
clearer and clearer.
“I always thought he’d be a soccer player. I mean, he
was in the soccer club from grade school on up; in high
school, he went all the way to Inter-High, and he got a
recommendation letter for soccer when he applied to
university, too.”
No. They’re not far away. I can hear the voices right next
to me. I finally realize that I fell asleep at the table as we
were drinking.
“When my parents decided to split up, I was still in my
first year of middle school. I still wonder if he chose to go
to work instead so he could pay for my school and food and
everything.”
 “Did Shou tell you that?”
“No, he doesn’t talk about this stuff.”
No. That wasn’t it. It wasn’t anything like that, I think,
startled, feeling as if I might cry. I stopped voluntarily. I
gave up; it had nothing to do with you. I say it over and
over in my mind, my eyes still closed.
I always loved soccer. Up until middle school, I was
better than anyone else at school. Even after that, I played
for keeps, and I chose to go to university on a soccer
recommendation because that seemed like more fun than
taking the exam like everyone else. In university, most of
my teammates were far past my level, and my enthusiasm
for it gradually cooled. By the time I was a college
sophomore, I’d made the calm and rational judgment that
an ordinary job would work better for me than going pro.
My parents’ divorce had been a convenient excuse. I have
to help shore up our budget, and my kid brother’s still in
middle school, y’know? I’d explained it to my college
friends and teammates, again and again, but I was pretty
sure I’d never said it to my family. If ever I had anything
like a talent for soccer, it expired when I was in my
midteens at the latest, I’ve realized. And I was far from the
only one. Some kids are just really good with a ball, better
than you’d expect. It has nothing to do with effort—maybe
they were born with the right instincts, or maybe they just
grew a little faster when they were small. But as they get
older, and height and muscle average out, that special
something generally fades into mediocrity. That’s all it is.
“Shou doesn’t usually tell people much about what he
really feels. He is a sweet guy, though.”
“He should be sweet to his girlfriend.”
“Yes, he is. He’s much more mature than I am. He
doesn’t really talk about his feelings, though, so I do get
nervous sometimes. I know he brought up the whole
‘moving in together’ thing because he knows I’m short on
money. I’m sure I’m the only one of us who’s in love. But…I
guess that’s why today made me really happy.”
“Well, sure. It was love at first sight, after all.”
I can hear the two of them laughing. It’s embarrassing—I
just feel pathetic. And it’s taken me this long to realize that
the real reason I want to move is that I want Rika to quit
her night job. The dull, constant pain in my chest slowly
dissolves until it’s indistinguishable from the glow of the
alcohol. Quit talking about this; now I can’t get up. I know
it’s unfair.
While I’m praying that they’ll leave the table soon, I fall
back asleep.

***

I move out on a fine day in early August.

At the crack of dawn, I rent a small truck, then drive my
stuff and Rika’s to an old apartment facing the botanical
garden in Bunkyo Ward. I was surprised at just how much
of it was Rika’s, but when I complained, Takao and Rika
joined forces against me. “This is totally normal for a
woman!” they said. I secretly regretted ever letting them
meet.
But all that aside, we manage to transfer everything over
before evening, thanks to Takao’s help. Now we can take
our time unpacking. It’s already been nearly two months
since the night we drank together.
“Thanks for all your help! You wanna come eat with us,
Takao?”
“I’m sorry. I have to work today.”
As I quickly unpack the most necessary toiletries from
one of the boxes, I’m catching snatches of their
conversation from the balcony.
“Aww. I’ll be with him the whole time from now on, so at
least for today…,” Rika says, and I shout at them.
“I can hear you!”
 They laugh, reminding me how close they’ve gotten.
Damn them. I smile a bit wryly, realizing I’m just a little
jealous. Wonder if this was what Mom felt like.
“Okay, see you later,” Takao says, stepping into his
shoes. “Have me over for dinner sometime. Let’s cook
together again.”
“Sure. I’ll text you. Byeeee!”
“Good-bye,” Takao calls, ever the gentleman.
Any girl would be lucky to have him. And I mean it. We
spent fifteen years sharing a room, and yet we don’t really
know each other. In fact, we may understand each other
better now that we’re living apart. I really will ask him over
for dinner someday soon. He’s probably got his eye on
someone now, and I’ll ask him about her. I’ll clear up his
misconceptions about me someday, too.
“What a cute kid,” Rika says with genuine warmth; she’s
still beaming.
“Did you notice his shoes?”
“Huh?”
“He made those himself.”
“What?! You’re kidding!” Rika is floored, unsurprisingly.
“They’re just moccasins, and they’re not the most stylish,
but still. Shoemaking has been his thing for the past year
or so.”
“That’s so cool! I can’t wait to see where he goes with
that, can you? Maybe he’ll make me a pair of shoes, too.” I
laugh a little at Rika’s heartfelt enthusiasm.
“I dunno about that. Goals change in three days when
you’re a kid, after all.”
It’s an opinion I hold even now. Takao might end up
making shoes for a living; he might not. Rika might become
a professional actress; she might not. One day, the winds
may change and lead their hearts in different directions.
It’s fine either way, I think. Whether you’re in your teens
or twenties or fifties or above, there’s no clear break
between one period of your life and the next. Your dreams
and goals may constantly change shape, but they’ll always
be with you. I’ve quit soccer to slave away in sales, but
there was no clear moment when the former became the
latter.
“I’m not so sure. I get the feeling Takao’s something
special.”
On the cluttered balcony, Rika’s gazing at the sky with a
warm smile in her eyes. The summer sun is beginning its
trip down to the horizon, and the sunlight traces an outline
around her profile. I follow her gaze to the little white
crescent moon, hanging in the sky like a distant window,
and the emotion hits just as hard as that awestruck wonder
I felt when I first saw her in the spotlight. She’s still so far
away.
 Me ni wa miete / te ni wa toraenu / tsuki no uchi no /
katsura no gotoki / imo wo ika ni semu
(Man’yoshu volume 4:632) Translation: Like the katsura
tree / on the moon / which one can see / but not grasp, /
what am I to do with that dear girl?

Context: A poem Prince Yuhara wrote to a young woman.

It’s a poem that compares her to the legendary
katsura tree on the moon. A feeling of longing for a
proud, beautiful girl whom he can only meet and
can never truly have.
 CHAPTER FOUR

The Start of the Rainy Season, Distant Peaks, a Sweet

Voice, the Secret of the World.
—Takao Akizuki
We might meet again, the woman said.
What did she mean by that? Was this meeting just an
encounter, or more of a secret rendezvous? Nah, that’s not
it. It couldn’t be. There was no hidden meaning. But this is
probably the fiftieth time Takao Akizuki has tried reading
into the things she’s said. He’s been wondering about these
pointless questions for about two weeks now, ever since the
official start of the Kanto area rainy season. And ever since
that day, the sky has obediently continued the downpour.
“We might meet again, then. Just maybe. If it rains.”
What’s this “We might meet again” business? Was that
“Just maybe” necessary in this context? Ugh, she’s so
frustrating.
The train pulls into Shinjuku Station, and Takao is
roughly ejected onto the platform. The scent of rain wraps
around him. Careful of the worn-down soles of his shoes, he
jogs down the stairs to the ticket barrier.
Besides, she’s already forgotten she said that. Now that
we’ve seen each other a few times, I know what she’s like.
She’s the type you find in the park drinking before noon.
He opens his vinyl umbrella, stepping out into the rain.
I should forget about it, too, then. She’s a drunk lady in
her…well, I don’t know how old she is, but what she says
doesn’t mean anything.
Cutting across the congested Koshu-Kaido Avenue, he
makes for his usual spot in the park. He shows his annual
entry pass to the middle-aged woman at the turnstile and
greets her with a “Good morning” and a smile. He’s in his
school uniform, but the way to avoid getting called out is to
cover any sense of guilt with a bright smile.
Geez, how much water is gonna come down on us
anyway?
As he walks to the Japanese garden, he tilts his face
toward the leaden sky. He can see a vast ocean—the Pacific
Ocean, or the Indian Ocean, or the Mediterranean Sea—
bounded by a curved horizon. The winds carried all these
thousands, millions of droplets here from those faraway
places. A crow is flying toward the western sky, pelted by
the rain. Where is it going in weather like this, and why? It
looks oddly somber, and Takao worries he does, too. As he
walks through the garden under his umbrella, he wants to
seem a little lighter, less serious.
As he muses to himself, the arbor comes into view
beyond the wet maple leaves. The woman is there, as she
always is, and she’s waving cheerfully. As she always is.
God, she’s frustrating, Takao thinks again.

“Now that you’re a regular, you’re entitled to a freebie,”

she says abruptly.
When he glances up, she’s holding a disposable coffee
cup out to him.
“Huh?”
“Oh, um, here. Do you want it?” she says hastily. She’s
blushing over her own joke. Just don’t say it, then?
“Oh, thank you. You’re sure it’s okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Because I’m a regular?”
“Yep. At the arbor.” She smiles with some relief as she
answers, and Takao reaches out and takes the cup. The
aroma of the coffee mingles with the scent of the rain, and
he catches the faintest whiff of her perfume. For no reason,
the inside of his chest aches, just a little. Still smiling, she
lets her eyes return to her paperback, and Takao looks back
down at his notebook.
She’s like a snow-woman.
Takao sneaks a glance at her out of the corner of his eye.
It’s a thought he’s had several times before. Or maybe a
rain-woman. Her skin is so pale, she almost seems ill, and
he suspects that it would be cold as rain under his
fingertips. The color of her soft, bobbed hair is rather light,
while her long eyelashes are as black as ink. Her delicate
neck and shoulders seem dangerously fragile. Her voice
has a sweet moisture in it, and it still sounds childlike.
She’s always wearing a business suit, which looks out of
place in the park, and her shoes are always conventional
heels. Look, you’re in a park on a rainy morning, he
mutters silently. He’s skipping school, so he’s got no room
to talk, but she’s really sketchy.
Most people would probably say she’s objectively
beautiful. Really beautiful. Takao isn’t all that interested in
the topic, but he’s sure the word applies to her. Her beauty
isn’t very human, though. It feels more like a part of nature
to Takao, like distant clouds or a tall peak, or a sight like a
rabbit or deer on a snowy mountain. Yeah, she’s a rain-
woman for sure.
At first, her presence was an annoyance to him. He was
skipping school because he wanted to be alone, and he had
chosen rainy mornings and a park that charged admission
because he was hoping no one would be there. But ever
since their first encounter at the end of last month, she has
always been there, in the arbor in the rain. This is the
seventh or eighth time they’ve run into each other.
And yet Takao hasn’t chosen another place to be
delinquent, and even he doesn’t understand why. It might
be because she doesn’t bother him, even when she’s sitting
only a few feet away. She almost never speaks. She reads
her paperback and watches the rain, sipping beer or coffee,
while Takao sketches leaves or thinks up shoe shapes or
pauses to watch the rain, too, just as he’s always done.
Except sometimes, she does speak to Takao, and none of
it is ever something that actually needed to be said: “The
spot-billed duck just dived; did you see it?” or “These twigs
have grown since last week, haven’t they?” or “Oh, I can
hear the Chuo Line.” They’re simple statements, scenic
descriptions. At first, he didn’t know whom she was talking
to or how to respond, but he assumes she’s making
conversation after he realizes she’s always looking at him.
His responses are never anything more than brief
agreements, so conversations with her aren’t much
different from listening to the rain.
“See you later,” she tells Takao with a smile when he
slings his bag over his shoulder and gets to his feet.
“Mm-hmm, later. Um, thank you very much for the
coffee.”
After that, Takao walks toward the Shinjuku gate in a
lighter rain than before. As his pace gradually quickens, he
realizes he feels exhilarated, the way he does after reading
a story he likes. A single drop of her voice still lingers
faintly in his ear. The sound of rain from a rain-woman. But
I like listening to the rain, I guess, Takao thinks, and then,
God, she’s frustrating.

“Look who decided to show up at noon again.”

When Takao walks in through the open classroom door,
several of his classmates turn away from their lunches to
look at him.
“What time do you think it is anyway?”
“You’re gonna get in trouble one of these days.”
He laughs and responds to his classmates’ remarks, sits
down in his chair, and unwraps his box lunch. Steak and
peppers (his first-ever attempt) and rice with dried
julienned daikon radish and powdered red shiso leaf. For
the pepper steak, he experimented with a recipe he’d heard
about at the restaurant. Apparently, the real deal used
pork, not beef. Oooh, the lighter flavor goes well with the
peppers. I think I like it this way. As he’s chewing the meat
and musing about his food, he realizes the guy at the desk
next to his has his English textbook open.
“Hey, we’ve got classics for fifth period, right?”
 “Nope. Old Takehara’s out with a cold or something, so
we switched to Nishiyama.”
“Gah, seriously?”
He’d been planning on doing more sketching, but that
wasn’t gonna happen. Professor Takehara was nearing
retirement, and his classics class was low pressure; as long
as you were quiet, you could do anything in it. On the other
hand, Nishiyama’s English class was both boring and strict.
“You should probably raise your hand more so they see
you’re here, Akizuki,” his neighbor says, without taking his
eyes off his textbook.
“Ha-ha. Wish I could, but I suck at English.”
Even as he answers, he abruptly thinks, Ha, Shao Hon
would laugh at me for throwing in the towel.

***

It happened in April, when even the late-blooming cherry

blossoms had mostly scattered, forming white smudges
here and there on the asphalt. Ever since March, when he’d
learned he’d gotten into high school, he’d been working
part-time at a privately run Chinese restaurant in Higashi-
Nakano, and the incident was about a month after that.
“Hey, kid, c’mere a second.” He’d had a bad feeling
about the customer as soon as he waved him over.
“So…Akizuki, is it? You a student?”
The man was around thirty, his face red from drinking;
he’d read the name off his nametag. Takao stiffened a little
and answered, “Yes, I’m a student.”
The man huffed audibly, then pointed at his stir-fry with
his chopsticks.
“This right here. There’s trash in it.”
Takao peered into the vegetables by the man’s hand, and
sure enough, there was a transparent shred of plastic
between a bean sprout and a leek. “Well?” the man asked,
looking up at him.
“I’m so sorry about this, sir! We’ll make you another
order right away.”
“Don’t bother, I already ate.”
He glanced at Takao and said nothing more. This was a
test. His shoulders were solid and muscular. Instead of a
suit, he was wearing an old polo shirt. It wasn’t clear what
sort of work he did.
“Then…we can give you a discount?”
“Damn straight you will,” he snapped, and Takao
flinched. “Show some initiative, wouldja? What’s the policy
for stuff like this? Don’t you got a manual?”
Takao hadn’t expected that question, and he was starting
to sweat. This had never happened before, and all he could
offer was an incoherent attempt at an explanation.
“Um… I think what we’re supposed to do is, uh,
exchange the order. With your permission, I mean. I’m
supposed to call the manager and have him deal with—Um,
explain things to you, but he’s out right now…so…”
Words failed him, and he could feel other customers’
eyes on him. The man heaved a big, dramatic sigh. “Then
what are you gonna do?” He sounded irritated. “And I can’t
read your mind, kid. Speak up.”
But the more Takao thought, the less he knew what to
say. He scanned the restaurant for help, but none of the
staff had noticed him. “Hey!” the man said again, more
threateningly this time, and Takao hastily looked back at
him.
“C’mon, Akizuki. People are gonna think I’m bullying
you.”
“…I’m very sorry. Um, for now, let me get you a new
meal—”
“I told you I don’t need one!”
“I’m sorry!” He bowed reflexively, hunching in on
himself.
“Excuse me, sir,” someone said calmly, and Takao
realized Xiao Feng was standing beside him. In a smooth
motion, he knelt so that the man’s eye level was above his,
and said, “My name is Li; I’m the floor manager. I believe
our server has been very rude to you. Could you tell me
what happened?”
He could feel the wind die in the man’s sails. Oh, thank
God. His knees nearly gave out with relief, but at the same
time, frustration bubbled up inside him. He didn’t know
whether he was mad at the customer or the restaurant.
Why do I have to go through this?

“You’re new here, so of course you weren’t sure what to

do. Anyone would have trouble handling that. Make no
mistake, though, the fault was yours, not his.”
After they’d finished their shifts for that day, he and Xiao
Feng were walking back to the JR station together, and
Takao was surprised to hear what he had to say. He’d
expected consolation—a comment acknowledging the
harrowing experience, or a reminder that it was the
customer’s fault.
“But I’m not the one who made his food,” Takao argued
back.
The night wind was cold for April, and he was walking
along glumly with his hands shoved into the pockets of his
school trousers. The fast-moving clouds were tinted pale
pink by the streetlamps.
“He was probably lying about the plastic in his food.”
“Huh?”
“We only use colored plastic bags in our kitchen,
specifically to avoid this problem.”
“Then the whole thing was the customer’s fault! Why did
you give him a free coupon?” Takao bristled; this just didn’t
sit right with him.
Although Xiao Feng was eight years older than he was,
Takao was only polite when they were in front of
customers. The first time they’d met, the man had told him
to keep it casual; plus, he remembered Xiao Feng’s baleful
confession that he’d quit Japanese language school after
two months because the students had been forced to use
polite speech. And yet his polite Japanese was still much
better than Takao’s, which instilled in Takao a sense of
respect regardless.
“That’s because we couldn’t completely prove it wasn’t
our fault. Besides, it’s foolish to argue with him in full view
of other customers. People are motivated by what they feel,
not what is right.”
Takao didn’t understand what he meant right away, and
he looked up at the man who was walking beside him. He
was tall and slender, and the lines of his face were so
sharp, they could have been carved with a knife.
Everything he said came out like a proverb, and his faint
accent made his words oddly persuasive.
“You took an order from him while your back was turned.
Remember? He asked for a beer when you were clearing
away dishes, and you said ‘Yes sir’ without looking at him.”
“Huh…?” He didn’t remember that. “I might have, but
we were super busy today,” he hastily argued.
“It wasn’t just once, it was twice. After that, you were
talking to the lady next to him.”
“Oh, that was because she spoke to me. She was just
asking me questions, like how old I was and what days I
worked there.”
“And after that is when the customer called you over. He
probably felt he was getting snubbed by an inconsiderate
high school part-timer.”
Startled, Takao looked at Xiao Feng again. He felt as if
someone had slipped a sliver of ice down his back, and he
could feel his face turning red.
Xiao Feng looked up at the pink clouds as he spoke.
“Everything has a cause. It’s all connected.”
 Xiao Feng Li was a twenty-three-year-old from Shanghai.
When Takao had first met him at work, he’d said his name
in Mandarin, as “Xiao Feng,” but Takao just could not
pronounce it. The Japanese reading of the characters would
have been “Shuu Hou,” but Xiao Feng had not been a fan of
that. Eventually, they’d settled on “Shao Hon.” He was the
first foreigner Takao had had any real contact with.
He said he’d come to Japan because of his high school
sweetheart. She’d come to Shanghai from Japan on a short-
term language exchange program at sixteen, and then
seventeen-year-old Xiao Feng had liked her the moment he
saw her. She didn’t dress to impress, but even in jeans and
a T-shirt, she looked somehow sophisticated. She kept her
makeup light, but her shiny lip gloss was insanely sexy; she
wasn’t especially opinionated, but the views she held were
always rational. To Xiao Feng, she was an exception among
the other Chinese girls, who were constantly vying for
attention from the boys. She was a symbol of the unknown.
As a result of his enthusiastic advances, the two of them
became lovers, and their relationship lasted for half a year
until her time on exchange was over. Although she had
fallen head over heels for Xiao Feng by then, he had very
casually, very considerately, ended the relationship. During
their six months together, he’d mastered very basic
Japanese, which had significantly decreased the mystery
he’d initially sensed in her. However, the experience had
made him determined to go to a Japanese university on
exchange. As if she was the first step, and he’d find
something that was more precious to him waiting on the
other side.
His father was in the import-export business, and with
the Beijing Olympics just around the corner and the
Shanghai World Expo two years after that, he wasn’t happy
about his son studying abroad in Japan. (As he put it,
“There’s no sense leaving home when you know it’s going
to rain gold.”) But what young Xiao Feng needed wasn’t a
guaranteed future, but a new unknown.
What Xiao Feng gained from his four years at university
in Tokyo was nearly perfect Japanese, a variety of
connections, and a romantic history with about a dozen
Japanese women. He moved frequently, owing to financial
and relationship circumstances, but whether his living
companion was a roommate or a girlfriend, he always
chose a Japanese national and consciously worked on
honing his language skills. Meanwhile, he actively relied on
the local Chinese community for part-time jobs, and he
energetically worked at several of them—beginning in food
service, then moving through imports, translation, selling
Chinese-language teaching materials, and more—steadily
building his network. By his third year of exchange, he was
already confident that he could get any job he tried for. In
fact, he was earning enough from part-time work to cover
his school and living expenses, and he had managed to
completely achieve economic independence as a student in
a foreign country.
His involvement with many Japanese women had given
him opportunities to visit various areas of Japan. Some of
the women he’d met in Tokyo had been from the snow
country, while others had been from remote islands. He’d
always been a friendly type, so he’d grab at opportunities
to visit their hometowns and meet their parents, hear local
stories and drink local liquor. As he did, Japan gradually
lost its mystery for Xiao Feng.
Shanghai’s World Expo had happened during his time on
exchange, and he began wondering if the city in his home
country was the new frontier for him now. And that was
why, after graduating, he’d continued to help out an
acquaintance in the import business instead of looking for
an employer in Japan. He’d been issued a one-year visa
when he graduated, and the looming expiration date made
his hesitation stronger.
The job at the Chinese restaurant, which had just
happened to be short-staffed, was a temporary stopgap
until he decided on his next destination. Or perhaps he was
repaying a debt. Xiao Feng still remembered the feelings
from when he first arrived in Japan—frustration at the
foreignness of things and a craving for the food of his
homeland—and how this particular restaurant had helped
him through them. Since he was fluent in Mandarin,
English, and Japanese, both the restaurant and its
customers found him extremely helpful. And when Takao,
as a third-year in middle school, had lied and said he was in
high school when he came to interview for a part-time job,
Xiao Feng had been the one who went to bat for him with
the manager. He’d argued that Takao would be starting
high school for real next month anyway, and that if he
wanted to work, they should put him to work.
Takao had learned about his life little by little, in the
back of the restaurant when they were on break, or at the
dim pubs Xiao Feng sometimes took him to on their way
home. Spending time around this impressive Chinese guy
sometimes made him feel as if his own life were part of
some dramatic story.

“Akizuki, let’s go get some tea!”

He’s survived another English class, sixth period has
finally ended, and just as Takao takes his next breath as a
free man, Hiromi Satou enters the classroom. A few of his
classmates send curious looks their way, wondering what
an older student is doing here.
“Where’s Matsumoto?” Takao asks.
“He has another hour of student council stuff. He says
he’ll meet up with us once it’s over.”
“If it’s a date, go by yourselves, all right?”
“He wants you to come, Akizuki. I think it’s easier for
him to relax with three people there,” she nonchalantly
says, completely oblivious to the potentially problematic
implications of her comment.
Come to think of it, he remembers Xiao Feng asking him
for something similar, and he’s suddenly very weary. Why
does this always happen…? If you like somebody, why don’t
you spend time alone with them?
The image of a rainy arbor surfaces in his mind, and
Takao hastily shakes his head. Misinterpreting the gesture,
Satou tugs on the hem of his shirt and laughs. “Come on,
come on, it’s fine, let’s just go!” Her bangs are trimmed
straight across above her eyebrows, bouncing softly with
every movement. The clean scent of antiperspirant reaches
his nose, and he suddenly catches a hint of something like
the rain-woman’s perfume. As he’s dragged out of the
classroom, Takao thinks, I don’t really get this guy-and-girl
stuff.

He manages to survive for two-and-a-half hours on a

¥180 iced coffee, and when he leaves the chain café, he can
feel the humidity on his skin. Today might be clear, but the
rainy season isn’t over. Looking up at the power lines
gleaming in the slanting sunlight, he thinks, The days have
gotten longer. And yet ever since the rainy season began,
each day has gone by faster than the last.
He and Satou had spent an hour together at the café.
When Matsumoto eventually turned up, the three of them
had chatted for about half an hour, and then Satou had left
for cram school. After that, he and Matsumoto had spent an
hour sipping melted ice with their straws. After a while,
though, he started getting a bit frustrated with the other
two. Talking about dumb stuff with these guys is fun, but
geez, it looks like I’m dating both of them.
Matsumoto had been in his class in middle school. Soon
after beginning high school, he’d taken the plunge and
started dating Hiromi Satou, who was in the next year up,
but he still tended to avoid going on dates alone with her.
And yet as soon as he was alone with Takao, he’d start
grinning and talking about how much he loved older girls.
Takao imagined that this mosaic of maturity and
childishness was probably appealing to older women. Feels
like I’ve got a lot of older women around me lately. Satou
from year two; Rika, the one my brother brought home the
other day; Youko, Shao Hon’s girlfriend. And then there’s
the rain-woman. I’m pretty sure Rika’s twenty-two, and
Youko’s twenty-five. I wonder how old the rain-woman is,
then. Is she older than they are, or younger? As Takao
gazes through the window of the Sobu Line train at the
darkening sky, he can’t even begin to guess.

***

At the end of June, the wisteria trellises in the Japanese

garden have bloomed. They’re a month later than usual,
almost as if they’ve been waiting for something. In the
abundant rain, the vivid purple seems to glow. The round,
lustrous drops are unbearably sweet as they build and build
in the flowers until they spill free in an unbroken stream.
It’s as if the wisteria flowers had hearts, brimming over
with irrepressible joy.
I bet that’s why I said what I did to the rain-woman. The
wisteria got me carried away, Takao thinks afterward.
There was probably one other thing to blame: the list of
registration requirements that had arrived the previous
evening.
He’d ordered a pamphlet from a shoe trade school, just
to see what it would take. As it turned out, the tuition and
fees for two years were ¥2,120,000, and according to his
rough calculations, he could save about ¥2 million just by
working part-time through high school. Huh? That’s
actually pretty doable, and the thought had given him a
perhaps unwarranted boldness. And Takao does have some
regrets over sharing something so embarrassingly beyond
his own capabilities, and yet he’s still a little proud. No, but
that was what I really felt.
“—A shoemaker?”
Even now, the exact sound of the question lingers in his
ears. He examines her tone in retrospect; she sounded a
little startled, but she didn’t seem to be making fun of him.
Her voice was young and sweet—without seeing her, you
could easily mistake her for a middle schooler—but it
always seemed vaguely tense. She sounded like a
committee chair or the student council president or some
other honor student type.
That morning, when they met in the usual arbor, the first
thing the rain-woman had said was, “Hey, did you see the
wisteria?!” She’d sounded unusually excited.
“Oh? Where is it?” Takao had asked in reply.
Under their umbrellas, they walked down to the wisteria
trellis by the bank of the pond. When they stood side by
side under the abundant clusters of blossoms, Takao
realized that he was just a smidge taller. Yesss.
Drops fell from the blossoms one after another, etching
beautiful rings on the pond. Like one person’s feelings
touching the heart of another, then spreading. The next
thing he knew, he’d said, “I want to be a shoemaker” out
loud.
“…I know it doesn’t sound realistic. It’s just that I like
thinking up shapes for shoes and making them.” Suddenly
embarrassed, he added, “Of course I’m still not that great
at it. I mean, obviously.” No response. He heard her inhale,
quietly, but that was all. Nervous, he looked up, and their
eyes met so dramatically, he could almost hear a sound
effect for emphasis. Without saying anything, she smiled.
And so Takao went on.
“If I can, I’d like to do it for a living.”
He said the words as if he were talking to the wisteria
blossoms. Like a declaration of feelings even he hadn’t
known about, the words echoed in his own heart, slowly
filling his chest with heat.
If she’d said, Wow, that’s amazing or Give it your best or
something like that, I would’ve felt awful, Takao thinks. He
might have blushed bright red, or lost his temper, or
wished he’d never said anything at all. He was so glad the
rain-woman wasn’t that kind of person. For some reason,
her muted reaction was incredibly encouraging to him.
From that point on, Takao had mentally stopped calling her
“the rain-woman” and started referring to her as just “her.”

He’s not sure when it started…but at night, before he goes

to sleep, Takao always prays for rain.

On the evening of the wisteria trellis day, Takao dreams

about flying. It’s been a long time since his last flying
dream. In this one, he’s a large-billed crow. Thick, hard,
strong muscles cover the area from his chest to his
fingertips; one stroke of his powerful wings pushes the
atmosphere away like water, letting him fly free and
weightless and as far as he wants. There are rows of thick
cumulus clouds in the sky, and several rays of lemon-yellow
sunlight lance through the gaps between them all the way
down to the ground. Far below, he can see the familiar
streets of Tokyo in detail, from the roof of his own building
to the play equipment at the children’s park to a glimpse of
a kitchenette in a mixed-use building, on and on forever.
He passes Kouenji, passes Nakano, glides between the
skyscrapers of Nishi-Shinjuku, and before long, the usual
Japanese garden comes into view. And the clouds open up.
The water soaks the ground in no time, and the buildings
and roads and trees glitter and shine in scattered rays of
sun. Then Takao’s crow eyes spot two umbrellas: a vinyl
umbrella walking along the thin path to the arbor from the
Shinjuku gate and a madder-red umbrella heading for the
same place from the Sendagaya gate. It’s the couple that
shelters from the rain.
Then where should I go? He suddenly isn’t sure where
he’s flying—until he is. Oh, I know where. He circles above
the park and makes for the Yoyogi building. As he flies, he
climbs higher and higher. The clouds are breaking up. Oh,
the rain’s stopping, he thinks. I’m waking up.

The moment his eyes open, he’s praying for rain again.

“Takao, should I get you some more hot pot?”

“You need more water spinach, too. You’re young! I hope
you’re not holding back for our sake.”
Xiao Feng’s and Youko’s voices urge him to eat in stereo,
and Takao wonders, as he crams more crab into his nearly
full stomach, why people think that being young means you
have an unlimited capacity for food. But I guess that’s
typical for Shao Hon, huh? Takao addresses the piled
remnants of crab shells in a silent whisper.
Everything Xiao Feng has made is delicious. All the
dishes are Chinese, but the kind that don’t make it onto
restaurant menus. Takao doesn’t even know the names of
most of them. However, all of it—the crabmeat that melts
sweetly in his mouth, the spicy hot pot with shrimp and
dumplings, the stir-fry of thick-fleshed gourd and Spam,
and even the simple dish of boiled bitter melon slices—has
startlingly fresh, complex flavors. Xiao Feng must have
gone to a lot of trouble to gather all the ingredients. Takao
really doesn’t understand why he’s been invited to
something like this.
“You’re almost like our little brother, Takao. You have an
older brother, right?” Youko asks. Her daring sleeveless
dress exposes her white shoulders, and Takao is a bit
distracted.
“Yes, I do. We’re eleven years apart.”
“Then he’s twenty-six? What’s he like?”
“He works in sales for a cell phone company. He likes
having money and showing off.”
Youko is slurping up crab miso, her lips pursed, and
Takao glances at her as he speaks. Youko’s kinda sexy, he
thinks. The way she eats is skillful and a little erotic. Half of
her thigh shows through the lace material of her lemon-
colored dress. Her bangs have been swept to one side, and
they hide half of her right cheek. Takao can’t take his eyes
off the motion of her red lips. Her gorgeous sophistication
reminds him a little of Rika. She’s very different from her.
“What’s with all the questions, Youko? You want him to
introduce you?” Drinking Shaoxing wine, Xiao Feng banters
with her as if he were talking to his little sister.
“You know, maybe I will. The age difference is perfect,
and I’d love to have Takao as my little brother.”
“No, no, my brother’s got a girlfriend, technically.” Takao
hastily intervenes and immediately thinks better of it—
Wait, why am I the one who’s getting flustered?—and he
glares at Xiao Feng, trying to remind him that Youko is his
girlfriend. Xiao Feng doesn’t notice. He just calmly takes
another swig.
“Aww, that’s a shame. Oh no, I’ll have to drown my
sorrows in Shaoxing,” Youko says with delight.
“Yeah, you want some?” Xiao Feng stands up and
wobbles toward the kitchen to get a glass. Oh, he’s drunk,
Takao finally realizes. Sheesh. Grown-ups, huh? he asks the
crab shells again quietly.
A few days ago, Xiao Feng invited him to come eat with
him and Youko. Takao said he didn’t want to get in the way
of their romance, but Xiao Feng humbly insisted that he
really wanted Takao there. Takao couldn’t refuse such an
earnest request, and so one sunny Saturday afternoon, he
went to Nakano-sakaue.
He’d expected a condo in that neighborhood to be in a
shiny new high-rise, but it turned out to be in a five-story
building probably more than thirty years old. Its
apartments were spacious, though, with only two families
per floor, and Xiao Feng’s place was even roomier than the
rest, the only one on the fifth floor.
When he entered the plain, neat living room, Youko was
already drinking a beer. It was a brand he’d never seen, but
the label called it Snow. Xiao Feng was in the kitchen,
cooking; he told them the food would be ready soon, so
have a drink and wait a bit. Takao had only met Youko at
the restaurant a few times. When he greeted her, she
smiled at him with a hint of sadness, and for a moment, he
thought, Huh? Was she always like this? There were
multiple lipstick-stained cigarette butts in the ashtray. Even
so, when he drank the barley tea he’d been given and
began nervously attempting conversation, Youko soon lit up
into the cheerful woman he remembered.
After drinking four or five glasses of sugared Shaoxing,
Youko gets up. “I need to go use the little girls’ room,” she
says.
Xiao Feng’s eyes follow her briefly. Then he turns back to
Takao, raises the brown glass bottle, and asks for the
zillionth time if he’s sure he doesn’t want to drink.
“I’ll hold off until I’m eighteen.” Takao laughs, repeating
the excuse he gave the other times.
“Gotcha.” Xiao Feng’s smile seems just a bit lonely, and
he looks unusually tired. Dribbling some liquor into his own
glass, he murmurs softly: “The thing is, I want to go
somewhere far away.” His tone is very grave, as if this is
the revelation of a secret, and Takao looks up. “I’ve always
been trying to find a way to a different world. I still am.”
Those words lightly brush against something soft inside
Takao. He suspects this is the first time he’s ever connected
with this man’s weakness. It’s strangely moving. But before
he can ask what Xiao Feng means, Takao hears the sound
of Youko’s returning footsteps, and his question remains
unasked.

Before he knows it, the sun has begun to set, and the
living room is enveloped in pale shadows. They’ve drunk
and talked themselves out, and just as the listlessness of an
exhausted itinerary is setting in, Xiao Feng’s cell phone
rings. Takao is somewhat relieved, and Youko sends Xiao
Feng a wordless look.
Xiao Feng glances at the display, then stands up and
starts toward the kitchen, picking up the call and speaking
softly on the way.
“I’ll come up later, so you two go to the roof. Bet it’s nice
up there right now.” Covering the phone’s mouthpiece with
the palm of his hand, Xiao Feng tosses a small key to Takao.
“The roof. That’s a good idea,” Takao says to Youko, and
the two of them leave the room with the sense that they’ve
just been kicked out. They take the short stairway up to a
locked door, and it opens to reveal a space about sixty-five
feet deep, illuminated by the evening sun.
Xiao Feng is taking his time coming up after them. Ten
minutes pass, then thirty. As the sun sets, it passes behind
some clouds, emerges again below them, and finally sinks
out of sight behind the distant ridgeline. With each change,
the shadows in the street shift dramatically.
Youko is smoking a cigarette. As he watches her back
with a bit of concern, Takao thinks that maybe this is why
Xiao Feng called him: so that Youko wouldn’t have to spend
this time waiting by herself. But he can’t find a single thing
to talk about with her. Well, it’ll be okay, he tells himself,
lying down so he can feel the cool concrete on his back.
The roof really is a pleasant place, like a poolside area
without the pool. There aren’t many tall buildings around
them, and the view is open on all sides. Yeah, he thinks,
gazing up at the sky. Sunsets on clear days during the rainy
season always look like this. The western sky is a
transparent orange, the color of a slice of salmon with light
shining through it. As the sun leaves it, the sky turns grape
colored. Finally, as twilight ends, slowly, slowly, by
imperceptible degrees, the grape darkens to midnight blue.
“The thing about Xiao Feng…”
Hearing Youko’s voice behind him, Takao sits up. She’s
gazing at the eastern sky, with her back to him.
“It’s written with the characters for ‘evening’ and
‘mountain peak,’ you know.”
Getting up, he follows Youko’s gaze, and realizes that
she’s looking at the skyscrapers of Nishi-Shinjuku. There’s
a cluster of brand-new anonymous office buildings, and
some very familiar ultra-high-rise buildings over 650 feet
tall peek over them and through the gaps between them.
There’s the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building, the
triangular roof of the Park Hyatt, the inorganic Sumitomo
and Nomura Buildings, and the cocoon-like Mode Gakuen.
The evening sun reflects orange off the very tips of the tall
buildings, while the streets below sink into dusky blue.
“Those buildings are like mountain peaks, aren’t they?
From now on, whenever I see a skyscraper in the evening, I
bet I’ll remember those two characters, ‘Xiao Feng.’”
It’s impossible to read the emotion in Youko’s voice, and
he still can’t see her face. Then she looks at him and gives
a smile like a lost child.
“Hey, Takao, tell me about the girl you like.”
He doesn’t know why, but he feels it in the depths of his
heart: Right now, I have to tell her the truth.
“…I’m not dating anyone. There is someone I think I like,
though.”
Youko’s gentle smile deepens. The lace ripples in the
wind, over thighs it doesn’t really hide. “And?” As Youko
prompts him to go on, her voice seems to have a
melancholy about it.
 “Lately, on rainy mornings, I skip class and eat lunch in
the park with her. I pack a bigger box lunch than usual
every morning for us.”
“Hmm. What’s she like?”
Takao thinks for a little. “She’s really bad at eating
things. The fillings in her sandwiches fall out. She’s lousy at
using chopsticks, I’ve seen her drool for a second when she
put a pickled plum in her mouth, and she eats chocolate
with her beer.”
Youko narrows her eyes, as if she’s looking at something
bright. She’s in the shadows, and peaks far beyond her
sparkle and shine.
“That sounds really nice.”
“…Maybe. I don’t really know.”

By the time Xiao Feng finally appears on the roof, both

the grape color and the midnight blue of the sky have been
replaced by the murky dark red of the city lights reflecting
off the clouds. Takao thanks him for the meal, leaves Youko,
and goes home on his own. He felt as if there was
something he should say to the two of them, but he doubted
he’d be able to find the right words, so in the end, he didn’t
even try. It’ll be fine; I’ll save it for next time, he thinks as
the cars whiz by along Yamate-dori on the way to the JR
station. I’ll invite them both over to my place to thank them
for today. I’m not as good at cooking as Shao Hon, but I’ll
get some sake and make them traditional Japanese food.
However, as it turned out, that would be the last time he
saw either Xiao Feng or Youko. A few days later, Xiao Feng
returned to China. Takao first learned about it when he got
the text from Shanghai. I’m sure we’ll meet again someday,
it said. Takao hadn’t asked for Youko’s contact information,
and with Xiao Feng gone, there was nothing to link the two
of them.
 ***

When he remembers how he once believed he could grow

up in three years of middle school, he’s embarrassed. How
dumb was I anyway? The world wasn’t that simple, and
people didn’t learn to control themselves so easily…
Assuming that self-control was a sign of adulthood at all.
But still. I want to grow up into somebody better,
somebody stronger already.
Sitting in the arbor, thinking and listening to the rain,
Takao is sketching a design for a shoe in his notebook. I
want to be considerate to the people who are important to
me, to be kind and strong, to be okay if I suddenly wind up
on my own one day, to find an unshakable strength. I want
to really live. As he draws lines with his pencil, he thinks to
himself over and over.
Before long, he hears approaching footsteps on the wet
earth. It’s her, he thinks, and when he looks up, he can see
her slim, suit-clad figure under her madder-red umbrella,
through the maple leaves.
“Good morning. I thought maybe you weren’t coming
today,” Takao says.
Her cool, beautiful face is the same as always. It irks him
a little, makes him want to needle her.
“I’m surprised your company hasn’t fired you.”
She responds with a small smile, then folds her umbrella
and enters the arbor. Well, whatever, Takao thinks, letting
his eyes return to his notebook.
“Oh, wow. Is that a shoe design?”
Her voice behind him startles him; she’s circled around
him and is peering in at his notebook. Waugh, what’s with
this lady?!
“Hey!” Hastily, he closes the book.
“I can’t look?” She cocks her head innocently.
“I don’t actually show these to people!”
 “Really?”
“Yes, really! Go on, go sit over there,” he says, waving a
hand to shoo her away.
She giggles. She really is frustrating, Takao thinks, even
as his heart beats faster and his chest grows hot. A shrike
or a titmouse or some other little bird is twittering
cheerfully on a nearby twig. Now that the woman is here,
the rain is growing heavier. The endearing splish-splash
against the garden pond is louder now.

“I’m going to eat breakfast,” Takao says, taking his box

lunch out of his bag. As usual, it’s a larger box that holds
full portions for two. He asks her the usual question: “Want
to join me?”
“Thank you, but I brought my own today.”
Takao wasn’t expecting that. Huh? She can cook? “What,
did you make that yourself?” It’s more condescending than
he intended.
“Oh, come on. I cook sometimes.” As she pries open the
pink lunch box with her pale fingers, she sounds a little
miffed. The small container holds two awkward rice balls,
soggy-looking lumps of meat that vaguely resemble fried
chicken, a rolled omelet, and a separate plastic dish with a
pinch each of pumpkin and macaroni salad. Takao decides
it doesn’t look very tasty, but as payback for looking at his
notebook, he impulsively stretches out his chopsticks.
“Okay then, let’s trade sides!”
Without waiting for her response, he snatches the omelet
from her lunchbox and pops it into his mouth.
“Huh?! Wait, I’m not really that—” When she’s flustered,
she really does sound like a child.
He chews the omelet, and grains of sugar cling to his
tongue. This is a really sweet one.
“Hmm?”
Something hard crunches between his molars. Eggshell?
Oh, for the love of— He promptly regrets his prank. This is
even worse than he expected.
“—good at cooking…,” the woman says, nearly inaudible.
When he glances at her, she’s rummaging in her bag, red
faced. “Serves you right.”
With that, she holds out a plastic bottle of tea to Takao.
He takes it and washes down the lump in his mouth. Ahh.
As he exhales, he starts laughing in spite of himself.
“You’re clumsier than you look,” he says. It’s the very
best compliment he can manage.
“Oh, stop it,” she snaps moodily.
Ha-ha-ha. She’s mad. I’ll compliment her more.
“Still…it’s good, in its own special way. Plenty of…
texture.”
“Now you’re making fun of me!!”
“Ha-ha. Can I have another one?”
“No! Eat your own lunch!”
“Guess that’s a no?”
“Obviously!”
Her face is getting redder and redder, and her
frustration is getting more and more childlike.
This is the first time he’s found anyone so endearing.
Yeah. He can tell he’s stumbled across something
incredibly valuable.

It’s like that period just after the sun sinks behind the
buildings, when the light from the train windows and the
brightness in the sky are in perfect balance.
Or the moment when he spots a familiar-looking figure
on the Chuo Line train running beside his, and then the
Sobu Line comes from the other way to cut off the view.
Or when he’s walking through an empty shopping street,
and he glances over to see a side street that goes on
forever, perfectly straight, illuminated by streetlights.
 His chest constricts, like someone’s squeezing it from
the inside. Every time it happens, he wonders if there’s a
name for that emotion. Each day holds countless moments
like these. Was that true before he met her, too? Was I like
this before I knew people could suddenly disappear?
What’ll happen if I stay this way? No matter how much
thought he gives it, Takao doesn’t know.
He only knows two very simple things.
The first is that he wants to make shoes for her.
And the second sounds ridiculous to him when he puts it
into words—but he’s fallen in love with her.

Beyond the curtain of rain and maple leaves, the woman

whose name he doesn’t know is smiling and waving at him.
He feels as if he’s discovered a hidden secret of the world
itself.
Waga yado no / tokijiki fuji no / mezurashiku / ima mo mite
shika / imo ga emahi wo
(Man’yoshu volume 8:1627) Translation: As rare as the
wisteria / that bloomed out of season / in the garden of my
house / I wish to gaze upon it still: / Your dear, smiling face
Context: One of the two poems Ootomo no Yakamochi sent
to Sakanoue no Ooiratsume, along with out-of-season
wisteria blossoms and bush clover leaves that had taken on
autumn hues. The beauty of precious, out-of-season
wisteria is compared to the face of a woman.
 CHAPTER FIVE

Shining Madder Red, Garden of Light.

—Yukino
She’s finally made it. Dragging her heavy feet, she turns
the knob of her front door.
Come on, Yukino thinks, disgusted with herself. Why is
coming back to my apartment enough to wear me out this
much? Pulling her high heels off her painfully swollen feet,
she strips off her nylons in the entryway, then reaches
around and unhooks her bra through her blouse. Setting
the heavy book she’s just bought down on the table, she
makes for her bed, doing her best not to look at the messy
apartment. The things she needs to do keep surfacing in
her mind, one after another.
It’s high time I picked up these empty cans and bottles.
And I should get that melted chocolate off the floor and into
the trash. And the laundry is everywhere; need to put that
away. Need to clean off the oil on the stove. Need to water
the plants; they’re nearly dried out. I have to at least take
off my makeup.
Without doing a single one of these things, Yukino
collapses onto the bed. A thick, liquid drowsiness crawls up
over her, as if it’s been awaiting her arrival. Through the
window screen, she hears the sound of a scooter going by.
Somewhere in the distance, a child is crying. The wind
carries the faint scent of dinner to her from some unknown
house. She opens her bleary eyes, looking at the upside-
down sky. The rain has stopped, and clear purple dusk
spreads out before her. One or two stars are twinkling with
inconsistent light.
Will it rain again tomorrow? Yukino wonders like a
prayer.
When she closes her eyes, she can still hear the heavy
rain drumming clumsily on the arbor roof.
Tap, tatap, tap, tap, splish, tap.
The irregular rhythm mingles with other noises: the
distant calls of crows, the twittering of the ever-cheerful
wild birds, and the faint hiss of the ground soaking up the
rain. And today, they’re joined by the gentle sounds of
sleep.

When the snores reached her ears, she looked up from

her paperback and realized, Oh. He’s sleeping.
It was the boy in his school uniform, the one she only
met at the park on rainy mornings, whose name she still
didn’t know. He’d been drawing something in his notebook
until just a minute before. I wonder if he’s not getting
enough sleep. Was he up late studying? Or making shoes?
He was resting his head against a pillar, and his thin,
boyish chest rose and fell in an even rhythm. She realized,
for the first time, how long his lashes were. His youthful
skin seemed to glow from the inside; his clean lips were
slightly parted, and his defenseless ears were as smooth as
a newborn’s. He really is young, huh… She was oddly
happy that it was just the two of them in this small arbor in
the Japanese garden; she could observe him openly as
much as she wanted.
God, that was embarrassing. As she gazed absently at
the boy’s neck, Yukino was remembering the moment he’d
eaten that failure of an omelet. She’d messed up breaking
the eggs, and she’d thought she’d fished out all the
fragments, but nope. That ugly, awful-tasting omelet had
even had shell mixed into it, too.
Still, it had been fun. As she replayed the moment in her
mind, she started to smile. Actually, it had been a lot of fun.
She hadn’t joked around like that in a very long while.
“Let’s trade sides,” he’d said.
“Serves you right,” she’d said.
“You’re clumsier than you look.”
“Now you’re making fun of me!!”
All of it sounded like cheesy lines from a school drama,
but it had been really, really fun. My toes are always cold,
even in summer—but they weren’t cold then.
But Yukino had felt just as much guilt as enjoyment. I
can’t believe I’m spending time like this with a high
schooler who’s skipping class! Just because we’re
sheltering from the rain together, I’m starting to act like
we’re accomplices. I’ve deliberately avoided asking his
name after all this time together, and yet I buy him coffee
and let him offer me lunch and ask him about his dreams. I
haven’t told him anything about me; I’ve just been learning
about him, little by little. I’m the last one who should be
doing this—this is wrong for both of us. There’s something
wrong with me… But still.
Just a little longer. Just a little more.
She looked at the boy’s face. He was still asleep. This
wasn’t just a nap; he was out like a light. I’m surprised he
can sleep so well in an arbor like this. She was impressed,
and also a tad jealous. Yukino knew from experience that
sleeping required energy, too. You needed energy to ride
the train, to remove your makeup, to taste your meals.
When I was his age, I think I had plenty of energy for those
things. And yet now…
Hey, kid…, Yukino thought, silently. What do you think of
me? Tell me:
“Am I still okay?”
She asked the question aloud, so softly that her voice
melted into the rain before it ever reached his ears.

“—And I can actually tell what those box lunches taste

like,” Yukino says.
“I guess that…taste disorder of yours is getting better,
then,” a man’s voice responds from the receiver.
He says the words with a question mark: “taste
disorder?” Although he sounds concerned for her, the
skepticism he still feels about the name of that illness is
clear even over the phone. She thinks, in passing, that she
used to find it endearing.
When his call interrupted her doze on the bed, she
dragged herself up, feeling more tired than before she went
to sleep, and fished her phone out of her purse on the floor.
The display showed her ex-boyfriend’s name. For a
moment, she couldn’t decide whether to pick up or just
ignore it, but then she remembered she’d been the one
who’d called first. As she touched the ANSWER icon with her
fingertip, she looked up and saw that the sky outside the
window was now completely dark.
“No, really. Until just a little while ago, chocolate and
alcohol really were the only things that tasted like
anything.”
Yukino is sitting with her knees drawn to her chest on
the sofa—her lone, precious boat in a trash-littered pond.
“Right, right. Well, if you’re getting better, then the
decision to quit your job must have been the right one,”
says her ex.
Yukino manages to hold back a sigh. “…Maybe. If I was
going to quit anyway, earlier might have been better. The
end of the year might have been best.”
“Mm, maybe so. But it’s understandable. Leaving your
job isn’t an easy decision to make. Just don’t push yourself.
Treat it like a vacation and take it easy.”
Oh, listen to him. Acting sooo kind, she thinks with some
disillusionment, as she shifts her cell phone. He’s so gentle,
like I’m made of glass. Back when even breathing hurt,
though, he never believed me. He only listened to the
people around us. I think that was probably natural. I really
do think he wasn’t to blame. If anyone is, it’s me. I was the
one who invited all of that. Yet she lost all faith in him
anyway. He’s taught her that when a certain type of
emotion is lost, it never comes back.
 It happened during the winter of that year.
At first, Yukino thought she was coming down with a
cold. She’d been getting the sense that food didn’t have as
much flavor lately, but she’d had all sorts of other things to
worry about. She was sick and tired of everything and
everyone she had to deal with every day, and her health
was always off in one way or another. She had headaches
and stomachaches and swollen legs and abdominal pain,
daily work kept piling up despite her difficulties, and worst
of all was the silent judgment from the people around her.
Compared to that, the taste of her dinner seemed trivial.
But when the pasta Bolognese she had at a family
restaurant on the way home from work tasted like nothing
at all, she was so startled that she spit it back out on her
plate. It was disgusting, as if she’d put something
completely inedible in her mouth, and she hastily scrubbed
at her tongue with her napkin and looked around.
It was past nine in the evening, and the family restaurant
that faced Shinjuku-dori was about 60 percent full of
businessmen on their way home from their offices, noisy
groups of college-age students high on the joy of being
alive, and couples flirting shamelessly considering they
were in public. She watched them for a while, but nobody
was making a fuss about their food. In the seat next to
hers, a thirtysomething man in a suit was eating a
pepperoncino and fiddling with his cell phone. She stared
at his lips. It wasn’t clear how good he thought it was, but
he was eating normally, at least.
Maybe something’s wrong with my order?
She put her nose close to the Bolognese sauce. Its aroma
wasn’t that intense, but she did smell garlic and onions.
Next, she put just one piece of pasta in her mouth and
timidly chewed. It really didn’t taste like anything, but she
managed to choke it down, then drank water to rinse her
mouth out. Abruptly, she realized that the man in the next
seat over was looking at her dubiously. Yukino grabbed her
pay slip and coat and escaped the restaurant as fast as
possible.
Still confused, she went into a convenience store and
gazed at the shelves of box lunches. What should I do?
Should I buy one as a test? There were charcoal-grilled
beef kalbi, a filling assortment of fried foods, a chef’s
selection rice omelet, premium beef curry. Any of them
would do; she’d buy one, take it home, put it in the
microwave, and heat it for two minutes at five hundred
watts. In the meantime, she’d change into something
comfortable, take her makeup off, hear the ding, strip the
vinyl off the hot container, and open the plastic lid so the
cloud of artificial-smelling steam could kiss her face. She’d
scoop up rice with the white, weightless spoon they’d given
her at the register, then put it in her mouth. The more she
imagined it, the less appetite she had. What if it didn’t taste
like anything, either? What if she was forced to admit there
was something wrong with her tongue?
Tak. The sharp footsteps behind her sounded like a
message, and she hastily moved out of the way. An office
worker about Yukino’s own age stepped in front of her, as if
she’d been watching for a chance. She was wearing a pale
pink coat with fur trim, and she was significantly shorter
than Yukino’s five feet and four inches; Yukino’s nose
caught the sweet scent of perfume. The woman picked up
each of the lunches, checking the calorie counts as if it
were an instinct peculiar to her kind, and Yukino’s eyes
landed on the chocolate in the woman’s shopping basket.
Come to think of it, she hadn’t had chocolate for quite a
while. The sweet nostalgia mingled with the imagined
bitter taste of cocoa on her tongue, reaching down to her in
her distress.
That night was cold, and sleet fell along with the snow.
Back in her apartment, Yukino’s dinner consisted of two
chocolate bars and a can of beer. Although it wasn’t as
intense as her memories, the chocolate she nervously put
in her mouth was as sweet as it was supposed to be. The
single beer she was in the habit of drinking at home around
that time had the savor of alcohol. But except for sweets
and alcohol, she’d lost all sense of taste.
After a full week of this, Yukino got scared and went to
the hospital. They ran all sorts of tests, but the only thing
they learned was that nothing was wrong with her tongue
itself. “It’s probably psychogenic,” said a doctor who looked
as if he were still in college. “Work to eliminate stressors
and eat well-balanced meals with plenty of zinc.”
She very nearly yelled back at him—Hell, even I know to
do that! The things she could still taste became her lifeline
—chocolate, cakes, sweet rolls, beer and wine—and her
already-weak health got progressively worse. Even so,
every morning, Yukino meticulously did her makeup—more
for protection than for her appearance—and left the house.
Even as more and more days passed when she was unable
to ride the train, she always clung to the ritual of getting
dressed. I’m sure I’m not the only one, Yukino desperately
told herself. I’m sure everybody’s living through some kind
of hell that can’t be seen from the outside. She lived
through a winter and spring that were worse than anything
she’d ever experienced.
And nearly half a year after the pasta Bolognese, when
she met that boy during the rainy season, her sense of taste
finally began to come back.

“—All right. We’ll take care of the resignation

procedures after the end of summer vacation. I’ll tell the
higher-ups for you.”
“Okay. I’m sorry to cause you trouble even though we
aren’t even together anymore.” Yukino switches her cell
phone to the opposite ear again. She hasn’t been to her
workplace in more than two months now, but her
supervisor is looking the other way and treating it as an
absence due to illness. The private sector might have been
stricter about this, but she’s taking advantage of her
position as a government employee, and of her ex-
boyfriend’s goodwill. She knows very well that she can’t do
any more of this.
“I’m glad, really.”
“Huh?”
Glad? What about this is good? The unaccountable
irritation she feels toward him abruptly rears its head, but
he bears no ill will.
“That you met that old lady.”
She loses the thread of the conversation. Old lady?
“Huh? Who?”
“You know, from the park. The one who brings the box
lunches? It’s a good change of pace for both of you, right?”
Behind his voice, she hears a car drive by. She knows
intuitively that he’s at someone else’s house. If he’d been at
his apartment on Kanpachi-dori, the noise of the car
wouldn’t have interrupted that way. He’s eating dinner with
some woman I don’t know. After they’re finished, he tells
her he’s got a work call to make, and he steps out onto the
balcony. As he talks to me, he taps out a cigarette, one-
handed, and puts it between his lips. The images rise in her
mind with vivid clarity, and she’s startled to find she’s still
thinking about these things. No. He’s free to be with
whoever he wants, wherever he wants. That’s not it. I
forgot the lie I told him myself. I told him I’d started
meeting an old lady at the park recently. We’d been talking
to each other more often, and lately she was sharing her
lunches with me. And they’re incredibly good.
“Okay. Take it easy and rest up.”
With one last kind remark, he ends the call.
Slowly, Yukino’s phone drops away from her ear.
It’s already decided. But…
But I loved it so much. I’d wanted so badly to work in
this field, and I put in all that effort, and…
 Why?
The thought of that boy comes to mind.
“—I’m such a liar,” Yukino murmurs, burying her face in
her knees.

***

The day arrived with startling alacrity. Either that, or her

growing suspicions over the past month that something like
this would happen finally came to fruition.
That day became an unforgettable one for Yukino,
encapsulating radiance and nobility and purity, and every
beautiful possibility in existence. Its sweet, sorrowful,
painful echoes would probably linger in her heart for the
rest of her life.

Her alarm is ringing.

The moment she wakes, she’s hoping for rain. As she
opens her eyes, she slowly confirms that the sound she’s
hearing is real.
“It’s raining,” she murmurs to herself for
encouragement.
Curiously, her headache and nausea and lethargy are all
fading. She gets up from the bed and stays where she is for
a while, listening to the rain. Her hair is frizzing with the
humidity that’s built up in the room.
At some point, Yukino has come to love everything about
the rain. She knows why, but she never puts the reason into
words in her mind. She knows she mustn’t.
Pulling her bangs back with a headband, she pats on
foundation, then applies a pale shade of lipstick. She puts
on a freshly laundered off-white blouse, followed by a navy
pantsuit and a thin belt, then a spritz of perfume on her
wrists. She checks her reflection in the entryway mirror. I
wonder how old I look. Would I pass for my early twenties?
The next thing she knows, she’s staring at the mirror,
seriously mulling over the question.
“Don’t be dumb,” she murmurs, then grabs her umbrella
and leaves the apartment.
As a part of the human tide carrying her toward the
station, Yukino realizes with some relief that she won’t be
able to board the train today, either. And indeed she
doesn’t. She watches one Sobu Line train leave from the
platform to prove she tried, then heads for the park and the
arbor.

It’s a July morning, shining full of promise to dispel the

dark clouds around her. Even though it’s raining, half the
sky is virtually glowing blue. The low rain clouds are swept
along in shreds by the wind, and she can see bright white
clouds far above through the gaps. Washed clean by the
rain, the green of the garden is especially vivid. Light
shines on the rain-wet ground; the moisture in the soil
evaporates and turns to mist, and when the rain falls again,
steam rises here and there like smoke signals.
“Here. It’s a thank-you.”
Yukino holds a paper bag out to the boy decisively. Inside
is a foreign book, as thick as an illustrated reference
manual, that she bought at the bookstore just yesterday.
The raindrops tap away joyfully on the arbor roof.
“A thank-you?”
“I’ve just been eating your lunches all this time. You said
you wanted this, didn’t you?”
I wonder if that sounded like an excuse, she thinks,
carefully watching the bewildered boy as he takes the book
out of the bag. It’s an instructive book about shoemaking,
apparently a standard for beginners, and the words
Handmade SHOES are stamped on its cover in foil. Yukino
watches the boy’s expression shift from confusion to
surprise, then delight, like clouds in a windswept sky.
Beautiful and white, never the same for more than a
moment.
“—But this book is so expensive! Th-thanks!” he says in a
rush, then hastily remembers his manners. “Thank you very
much, ma’am!” He’s adorable. It’s contagious; I just might
start grinning, too.
The boy opens the book right away. I never realized your
eyes could actually sparkle, Yukino thinks, impressed by
how literal the sight is. Even the rain that’s falling behind
the boy glitters in the sunlight.
She takes a sip from the cup of coffee that she bought at
a café near the garden. It tastes as good as it should. With
some relief, she lovingly meditates on the bitter aftertaste.
When I’m with him, coffee tastes like coffee. Rice tastes
like rice, and the rain smells like rain, and the summer
sunlight looks warm and bright.
“—Um, I…,” the boy hesitantly begins, his eyes still on
the book. “I’m making a pair of shoes right now.”
“That’s terrific. For yourself?” Oh, that makes me sound
old.
The boy doesn’t seem to notice Yukino’s worry. “I haven’t
decided who they’re for, but…”
He falters.
Oh. She doesn’t understand the reason, but she suddenly
knows this is heading in the wrong direction.
“…they’re women’s shoes.”
And just like that, the bubble bursts.
“I’m having a lot of trouble. So…”
At the same time, little by little, a warm emotion begins
to seep out of the depths of her heart. As she tries to
discern what sort of feeling it is, the boy goes on. “…So I
need a reference. Since I can’t use my own feet. So, um, if
it isn’t any trouble…would you let me see your feet,
please?”
Even without looking at the boy’s face, Yukino can tell
he’s about to burst into tears. So am I, probably.
 A wagtail is singing in a clear voice.
All sorts of wild birds live in this garden. Yukino doesn’t
know the names of most of them, but she does know the
wagtails. They appear in the Kojiki, and she remembers Ms.
Hinako playing a tape recording of their song during a
classics lesson. If she recalls—yes, it was the bird that
taught the gods about carnal knowledge between men and
women.
Some part of her mind is remembering things she really
doesn’t need to. I’m so hot on the inside, but my skin is still
cold. Absently noting the strange disparity, Yukino slips off
one of her pumps. Slowly, she extends her bare right foot to
the boy. The two of them are sitting facing each other, with
Yukino’s right foot between them. Timidly, the boy touches
the tip of her big toe. Her cold toes are startled by the
feeling, like a hot sigh. Her heart is pounding. Both her
pulse and her breaths are so out of control, she worries the
boy may hear them. It’s overwhelmingly embarrassing, and
Yukino prays for her body to fall silent. Let the rain fall
harder. Let the wagtail sing more.
Before long, the boy’s hands gently cup her foot. He lifts
it slightly, as though weighing it. Toes, arch, heel—his
fingers move, examining her shape and softness. I’m glad I
exfoliated my heels the other day, Yukino thinks with relief
so heartfelt, she could cry.
The boy takes a small blue tape measure out of his bag.
When he pulls the white tab out of the plastic disc, a vinyl
tape follows it with a series of soft clicks. The idea that he
keeps a thing like this in his bag leaves a surprisingly deep
impression on her.
Gently, he wraps the measuring tape around her foot as
if it’s a bandage, then writes some numbers down in his
notebook with a pencil. From the tips of her toes to her
heel, from her heel to her ankle bones, the boy holds the
tape up, measures, and writes. As he works, her pulse
finally begins to calm down, and the rain falls harder to
make up the difference. Meanwhile, the sunlight also grows
brighter, and the wagtail sings louder, rejoicing in it. The
skritch of the pencil across the paper joins with the sound
of the rain. This place, this garden—it seems like a whole
different world.
“Could you stand up for me?” the boy asks quietly, from
beyond her foot. “I want to get a sketch of the shape of
your foot when your weight is on it. And then we’re done.”
She wants to tell him yes, but her throat won’t vibrate,
and Yukino’s response is nothing more than breath. She
takes off her left shoe as well, then climbs up to stand on
the bench, bracing a hand on one of the arbor’s beams. The
boy slips his notebook under Yukino’s right foot, bends
down, presses the top of her foot gently with his left hand,
and carefully traces its outline with his pencil. Yukino
watches him steadily. From far away, the sound of rustling
leaves comes nearer, until the wind is rippling through the
rain and the maple leaves and Yukino’s hair all at once.
Tiny droplets of rain scatter across her hot cheeks. There’s
a light in you, she thinks. And that light may be able to put
me back together in a whole new way.
“I, um…” The words slip out, and the boy looks up at
Yukino. “I can’t walk very well anymore. I’m not sure
when.”
The boy is watching her, mystified. “…Is this about your
job?”
“Hmm… It’s about a lot of things.”
The boy doesn’t reply. The wagtail sings to fill the
silence, and then, just for a moment, the boy smiles. Or
that’s what it looks like to Yukino. Still silently, his gaze
returns to his hands. The sound of the pencil joins the rain
again.
This is just like a garden of light, Yukino thinks, watching
the glittering curtain around them.
 What am I losing right now, and what am I about to gain?
Is there anything to gain at all? Or am I about to hurt
someone and lose even more of myself in the process?
Yukino remembers the thoughts she had as she walked
toward the park exit, alone, under her umbrella that
afternoon. When the morning was over, thick clouds had
hidden both the blue sky and the sun, a return to the
typical rainy-season weather. Cast-off cicada shells, wet
with rain, clung unobtrusively to branches here and there.
The time before their calls ushered in the true summer had
been a brief pause of a season.
And that was exactly why that time was so perfect.
In the future, Yukino would quietly remember her time in
that garden of light, over and over. When nothing had yet
begun, when nothing had yet ended, and yet it was still
something. All it held was potential, pure and good—a
beautiful, perfect time that would never come again. If the
gods gave me the chance to live a day over, just one more
time, I’m sure I’d choose that garden of light.
Later on, Yukino would learn that her premonition had
been accurate—that she’d hurt someone and lose
something. In a way—our time in that garden was the high
point of my life.
And yet even then, those perfect moments would
continue to warm Yukino’s life with an strength that no one
could ever destroy.

***

The cicadas are singing up a storm.

So many things surprised Yukino when she came to
Tokyo, nine years ago, but one of them was the cicada calls.
Cicadas sang in Ehime as well, of course, but they were
just one of many natural noises, like birds and wind and
rivers and waves. In Tokyo, though, they sang at a volume
that was almost violent, as if thousands upon thousands of
them had somehow managed to orchestrate it together. It
overwhelmed all the other noises; even if the wagtail had
sung, she wouldn’t have been able to hear it.
When they declare the end of the Kanto area rainy
season, a few days later than normal, the rain stops just
like that, as if someone in the know has flipped a switch. At
nearly the same time, summer vacation begins for the
students, so the boy stops coming to the arbor in the
morning. She remembers what he said on an earlier day: “I
decided I’d only skip on rainy mornings.”
At the time, she thought he was a strangely diligent
delinquent, a trait she found endearing. But now it feels as
though he’s broken a promise. It feels unfair, as if her close
friend has made another best friend for no reason at all.
Yukino is aware these feelings aren’t justified, but she has
nowhere else to go. Even on sunny mornings, she keeps
visiting the arbor.
Today is yet another of those days; the sunlight is
sweltering even in the morning. Because the general public
is on summer vacation, she’s forgone her suit in favor of a
white sleeveless blouse, an aqua cardigan, a green flared
skirt, and wedge-heeled sandals.
The garden gets a surprising number of visitors on sunny
mornings: foreigners with cameras, groups of senior
citizens with sketchbooks, and elegant middle-aged lovers
walking arm in arm. She’s sitting in the arbor alone with
her paperback, hoping her aura says, I’m not waiting for
anybody. I’m just enjoying my book.
She knows it’s too late, but she tries to reassure herself
anyway. Yes, it’s better this way. I’m glad he doesn’t have
an excuse to skip high school anymore. But despite her
efforts, the knowledge that she doesn’t really mean it
creeps up inside her. The truth is, I—
I didn’t want the rainy season to end.
As an experiment, she softly gives voice to the thought—
and the inner corners of her eyes grow hot. No no no, I’m
never thinking that again. She frantically returns her
attention to her lap. I am enjoying my book. She tries to
focus on the strings of letters.

The summer sun shone over a beautiful windswept plain

that stretched as far as the eye could see. But for Nukata,
the sunlight and gentle whispers of the wind were equally
hollow. Her joy had vanished, replaced by an inescapable
loneliness in the pit of her stomach.

Agh, no! Stop that, she almost says aloud. She’s had a
copy of Yasushi Inoue’s Lady Nukata no Ookimi stuck on
her bookshelf, and she’s picked it up for the first time in
quite a while, for no particular reason. The story details the
life of Nukata no Ookimi, a court poet and tragic heroine
from the time of the Man’yoshu who was loved by two
brothers, both emperors.
Yukino first read the story at fifteen. Back then, this was
the scene she liked best, where the lonely heroine walks
across the field of murasaki plants. After this, a famous
poem would be born in the most dramatic of ways. As a
student, she felt only excitement as she read it, but now
certain parts of it strike deeper than she expected. It’s
been like this for a while now, and she can’t concentrate on
the book.
Suddenly hearing footsteps, Yukino smiles and looks up
on reflex.
“This is such a big park!”
“Yeah, you’d never think we were in Shinjuku.”
A sporty-looking couple in their early twenties are
walking toward her, holding hands. They’re so chipper and
companionable as they walk under the trees, even Yukino
has to smile through her disappointment.
“Oh, excuse us!”
 As Yukino gets up from the bench, making room for the
two of them, the wholesome girl gives a quick nod.
“It’s fine,” Yukino responds, smiling back at her.
As she sits back down at the edge of the arbor and opens
her paperback again, she hears the couple’s animated
conversation.
“This is the Japanese garden, so…where do you want to
go next?”
“There’s a greenhouse, right? Want to head over there?”
“Ooh, yeah, that sounds neat!”
“The map says it’s kinda far, though. Can you walk that?”
“Oh, sure, that’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”
Meanwhile, Yukino’s eyes skim over the letters on the
page.
On sunny days, it’s like I don’t know this place at all, she
thinks. It’s so lonely.

She spends her mornings in the arbor, and in the

afternoons, she walks aimlessly through Shinjuku or Yoyogi
or Harajuku or around the Outer Gardens. When her toes
start hurting in her sandals, she goes into a chain café and
rests until she’s recovered, then begins walking again.
That’s how she survives the long, long summer days,
until the sun goes down. And all of August goes by.
As she pretends to read a paperback in the arbor, as she
walks over hard asphalt, as she sips iced café lattes, she
wonders, again and again, whether she has anyone. Would
anyone meet with me? Will someone suddenly get in touch
with me, out of nowhere? As she scrolls through the
address book on her phone, Yukino thinks. Yori called me a
little while ago, but her child is still so small, and it’s
probably hard for her to get out. I heard Ms. Marui quit her
job, but I’d feel bad asking a newlywed to go somewhere
with me. She is surprised by the number of names in her
contacts list: classmates from high school who live in
Tokyo, friends from university, friends of friends, boyfriends
from school, boys she never actually dated but had meals
with a few times, women she hit it off with during training
sessions, work colleagues.
Hello! It’s been a long time. This heat wave’s been
lasting awhile; are you doing all right? I’m writing because
I got today and tomorrow off. If you happen to be free,
would you like to go get some tea together? I’m sorry to
contact you so suddenly. If you’re busy, please don’t worry
about it.
She types out the text, with no name in the TO line. Ugh,
it’s no use. I want to get together with somebody so bad,
but I don’t know who I should ask. Who would want to see
me? Maybe I don’t have anybody I can just…meet up with
when I want. Anybody I could call a friend. She tries to
convince herself that this is true for most adults, but she
still feels hopeless.
When the sun sets, Yukino buys the ingredients for
dinner at the supermarket, mingling with the crowds
returning from work, and drags herself on aching feet back
to her apartment. Without even washing her face, she
collapses onto the bed, waiting quietly for her fatigue to
dissolve. When she’s finally able to move, she slowly sits
up, removes her makeup, changes clothes, and makes
dinner in her messy kitchen. She usually sits hunched on
the sofa, eating simple, one-bowl dishes that are easy on
the stomach. Rice porridge or udon or chicken and egg
over rice. They aren’t all that good, but they taste like
something, at least. That’s one of the things that boy left
for me, she thinks.
A breeze carries the scents of summer in through the
screen windows and the spaces between her toes. Ever
since that day, her feet have felt more special than any
other part of her. She touches her big toe, gently. A sweet,
sad pain seeps up from her toes to her lower back and out
to the rest of her body. This feeling is still here with me,
too. There was something like a halo around him; in just a
month, he brought about some enormous changes in me.
The idea comes as something of a shock to Yukino.

Have bars always been this gloomy and dark?

Feeling the bite of a salty dog on her tongue, she touches
the mixed nuts, which remind her of the bones of some
small animal. She gazes at the bottles arrayed on the shelf
behind the counter and thinks back. She hasn’t been to all
that many bars, but she gets the feeling that all the others
were brighter than this one. Or does it only feel that way
because I’m alone this time?
Yukino has nothing against women who drink alone in
bars, but until now, she’s never gone into one by herself.
She’s never had the chance. Whenever she drank
somewhere away from home, she was always with friends
or a boyfriend or people from work.
Right now, she’s sitting on a tall stool with her legs
crossed, trying hard to hide her nervousness and pretend
she’s used to this. She started with something off the
“Recommended” menu, a Hoegaarden White; she followed
it with a white peach cocktail, and now she’s almost
finished her salty dog.
The bar has no windows to look out of; the lighting is too
dim to let her read a book; she has no interest in the sports
broadcast on the muted TV. She has nothing to do except
drink.
After all the time it took her to even decide to come
here, she can’t leave after the length of a single class
period. She tells herself this, reminds herself that she has
to stay. She sips at the salty dog sparingly, as if she’s been
stranded and it’s the very last of her precious water.

When she opened the refrigerator to get a beer before

bed, there wasn’t a single can in there. What now?
She thought for a little while, with the refrigerator door
still open. She’d already showered. She couldn’t go out in a
T-shirt and shorts. Still… Oh, all right, she thought, making
a small resolution as she shut the door. She really did want
that beer.
She changed into a pale-green dress, applied a little lip
gloss, took a small rattan bag, and went out. She took her
building’s old elevator down, and once she reached
spacious Gaien Nishi-dori and felt the quiet nighttime air,
she realized how hard it was to breathe alone in that
apartment. She wanted to go out and talk to someone,
anyone; it didn’t matter who or where. She would settle for
a convenience store cashier.
There was very little car or foot traffic, and she saw the
green light of a convenience store, small and alone some
ways down the street. She slowly started toward it,
listening to the measured taps of her sandals. When she
happened to glance to the side, she saw a diffuse orange
glow at the end of a straight and deserted alley. A shop? A
bar? Yukino thought.
Nearly entranced, she turned into the alley. It was a bar.
A small menu, illuminated by an orange lamp, sat beside
the stairway of a mixed-use building. She hadn’t been
inside a bar in a long time. With some nostalgia, she
remembered complex, sophisticated drinks and compared
them to canned beer. What should I do? she thought,
following the bar with her eyes as she passed by—until she
changed her mind and turned back, but although she
slowed down in front of the menu, her resolve was so weak
that she nearly changed her mind again.
Just then, a woman walking a dog passed by, and the
dubious look she gave Yukino was the last push she needed.
Yukino went down the stairs beside the menu and opened
the heavy door made of iron and wood.
 “Are you alone, miss?”
A voice speaks to her very suddenly from the right, and
Yukino jumps. She ordered another salty dog to fill her
empty hands, and she’s been counting the grains of salt on
the rim of its glass, leaning in so close, her nose nearly
touched it. She’s just reached 129.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you all right?”
The owner of the voice hastily apologizes at her dramatic
reaction.
“Ah, no… Um, yes, I’m here by myself.” Yukino’s
response is flustered as well. A moment later, her face
grows hot. The man beside her smiles.
“Oh, good. I wasn’t sure whether I should speak to you.
I’m sorry to be so abrupt. I’m here on my own, too.”
Yukino nods, but noncommittally; she still isn’t quite sure
what’s going on. The man is sitting two empty seats away
from her, although she doesn’t know how long he’s been
there, and she observes him steadily. He’s wearing a dark-
colored shirt and a jacket that has a dull sheen to it. He
isn’t wearing a tie. His hair, which is long enough to hide
his ears, is swept back, and the width of his shoulders is
nicely proportioned. He’s probably a little older than she is;
he reminds her of a well-groomed foreign dog.
“Do you come here often?” the dog-man asks, raising his
glass.
“No…not really.”
“It’s a nice, quiet place, isn’t it? I work nearby, so I stop
in sometimes on my way home.”
“…Like today?”
“Right.”
This probably only feels like he’s picking me up because
I’m self-conscious , Yukino thinks as she makes tentative
conversation. This is a bar, it is nighttime, and these
conversations are probably normal. And I did leave the
apartment because I wanted to talk to somebody.
“You work very late.”
 “Yeah. It’s a publisher near here. You know, the building
next to the convenience store on the corner of Yotsuya
Yonchome? There’s a restaurant on the first floor, and…
Well, you probably don’t know what I’m talking about.”
Yukino gives a noncommittal smile. She doesn’t know it.
“What about you?” he asks.
“Um, my company isn’t around here. I live in the
neighborhood.”
“I figured.”
“Huh?”
“You’re dressed too casually to be coming from work.”
Dog-Man looks diffidently at Yukino’s clothes. Yukino
feels as if he’s seen her messy apartment, and she suddenly
grows embarrassed. Her face flushes again.
“That’s kinda nice,” Dog-Man says cheerfully, sounding
more relaxed.
“Huh?”
“Just stepping out at night on a whim to go drinking by
yourself. There aren’t too many women who can do that
sort of thing naturally, y’know?”
He gives her a very pleasant smile that tickles Yukino
with delight. It’s as if her homeroom teacher has praised
her for a good deed nobody seemed to notice.
“I’m Saitou. And you?”
“Oh, I’m Yukino.”
“Yukino? Is that your family name or your first name?”
“I get that question a lot. It’s my family name,” she
answers, laughing, then takes a sip of her salty dog as if
she’s just remembered it. The salt grains are rough against
her lips.

“So basically, she was out walking by herself when she

ran into the guy she was cheating with, and then her
husband showed up, too, and the other guy had to make a
break for it? Damn, what a love triangle—and with two
brothers, too. Talk about a mess.”
“Mm, I think it was less a mess than a quiet,
complicated, emotional affair,” Yukino says with a wry
smile.
Earlier, Dog-Man asked her what she did on her days off,
and she told him she read books in the park. He asked her
about the one she was reading now, which led to the
conversation about Lady Nukata no Ookimi. Dog-Man
hadn’t known that Nukata no Ookimi was a historical
figure.
Instead of asking if he really works for a publisher, she
recites a poem.
As I cross the murasaki field / shining madder red, / the
forbidden land, / will its guard not see you / wave your
sleeve at me?
“It was in your textbook at school, wasn’t it?” she asks.
“Oh, yeah, I think I have heard that one. I thought that
was a guy.”
“No, it’s a woman!” She leans forward for emphasis, and
he laughs happily. “So after she’s broken up with both
Prince Ooama and Emperor Tenji, she walks through a
field, feeling lonely. It’s an imperial hunting field full of
murasaki plants, spangled with white flowers. Ordinary
people aren’t even allowed to enter.”
“Hmm.” As he drinks his whiskey, Dog-Man nods with
interest.
Yukino is drinking a cocktail to moisten her throat. Wait,
she thinks suddenly, what have I been drinking? How
much? For the first time in quite a while, she thinks she
might be a little tipsy. Getting just a bit drunk and talking
to somebody about the things she likes might actually be a
lot of fun.
“The poem just slips out of her mouth as she crosses the
field of murasaki, the imperial hunting field.”
“Called it like she saw it, huh?”
“Well, yes, it was pretty literal.” Yukino laughs, too.
“That evening there’s a grand banquet. They drink sake
and feast, and each guest recites a poem from that day in
the presence of Emperor Tenji. They’re called on randomly,
so everyone is nervous, wondering when it will be their
turn. Except for her. If she tries, she can come up with any
number of poems right then and there.”
“She was a talented lady, wasn’t she?”
“She was. Although I don’t think it was quite the same as
our modern conception of ‘talent.’ She may have been more
like a shrine maiden, possessed by the spirit of an idea.”
“You’re a bit like a shrine maiden, too, Yukino. Next
you’ll tell me you come from a shrine family.”
“Goodness, no! We’re ordinary office workers. Anyway,
the pillow word ‘shining madder red’ just drifts into her
mind. ‘As I cross the murasaki field / shining madder red, /
the forbidden land.’ So she already has the whole first
section of the poem.”
“Hmm… Hey, have you had any experiences like that,
Yukino?”
“Huh?”
“You know. Messes.”
Oh, he means the talk about cheating, Yukino slowly
realizes. He’s probably bored of all this talk about poetry,
she thinks somewhat apologetically.
“No, I haven’t really… None at all, actually. Nothing like
that. Um…”
She tries to say Dog-Man’s name. What was it? Satou, or
Katou, or Watanabe…?
“What about you, sir?” she asks, covering for herself.
Dog-Man laughs. “Aww, you forgot my name, didn’t you,
Yukino?”
“Uh, no, I… Sorry.”
“Ha-ha! Don’t worry about it. It’s a common name, so
everybody forgets. They ask if it was Satou or Katou or
something. It’s Saitou.” His smile as he takes another sip of
whiskey is a relief. “Well, this is pretty fun,” the man says.
 “What, really?”
“Yeah. It’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed anything like
this. What about you, Yukino?”
“Yes, me too.”
As she responds, she drains the remainder of her
cocktail; she isn’t even sure what kind it is. “Bartender, get
her some sort of frozen cocktail,” she hears him say, and
she listens to him with a sense of unreserved freedom, as if
she’s in a club room after class.

They decide to change venues and drink a little more,

and since there aren’t many places in that area, they get
into a taxi. As she watches the lights of Aoyama-dori stream
by outside the window, Yukino thinks through an alcohol-
infused haze, So this is how relationships start. They didn’t
meet at school or at work, and no one introduced them to
each other; the independent adults of the world act alone
and meet people naturally. They expand their own worlds in
an organic way. Yukino feels as if she’s discovered this law
of nature through experience. It’s as if she’s finally become
an adult.
Just after they pass the shuttered Shibuya Station, they
get out of the taxi and walk side by side for a while. The
damp summer air feels pleasant on her liquor-flushed skin.
The back of her right hand bumps against Dog-Man’s arm a
few times. She feels as if she’s walked through Shibuya at
night with someone like this before, a long time ago.
Suddenly, he takes her hand. She suspected he would, so
she isn’t too flustered, but when they stop, she’s a little
surprised to see that they’ve entered the street of hotels in
Dougenzaka. The healthy comfort of sleeping with someone
flickers across her heart. “Would you like to rest for a little
while?” Dog-Man says, like something out of a drama or a
manga. She giggles at the thought, and he takes it as an
answer. Dog-Man puts an arm around Yukino’s shoulders,
gently steering her toward the entrance to a hotel.
Yukino begins walking, accepting the pressure. The
automatic frosted glass doors open, a cold air-conditioned
breeze brushes her face, and Yukino looks down. For the
first time, she notices Dog-Man’s shoes. They’re leather,
patterned like lizard skin or snakeskin, with pointed toes
and a slick, glossy finish. And the memory of that boy’s
shoes bursts into her mind with such vivid clarity that the
fog of the alcohol evaporates. She can see the boy’s ragged
moccasins come into focus. They weren’t school loafers or
sneakers or dress shoes. She abruptly realizes that he
made those shoes himself, and she freezes.
“…What’s the matter?” Dog-Man asks.
What’s the matter? What on earth is the matter with me?
“Um… I’m sorry, I—”
Dog-Man watches Yukino steadily, silently. The
unmanned lobby is deathly silent. As she detects a hint of
exasperation from him, she hears a big sigh.
“…I’m really, really-really sorry!”
With that, Yukino runs out of the hotel. She runs down
the hill, gets into an empty taxi, and asks to go to
Sendagaya. The moment the taxi begins to move, she
realizes she’s incredibly drunk. Her vision spins, and every
time the car speeds up or slows down, she feels nausea
well up inside her. When the taxi is on its way past Meiji
Park, she can’t take it any longer. “I’m sorry, stop, please
open the door.” She flies out of the taxi, sticks her face into
the shrubbery, and throws up violently. Her hands and
knees are muddy, and her whole body won’t stop shaking.
It’s like she’s broken. Gradually, every blink of the orange
hazard lights starts to feel like an attack. You’re worthless,
you’re worthless, you’re worthless, you’re worthless, they
remind her.
Even after her stomach is empty, Yukino keeps throwing
up with tears running down her face.
 ***

Her alarm is ringing.

Even before she opens her eyes, Yukino knows it won’t
rain today. Salvation would never come down to her so
easily.
Ignoring her ferocious headache, she washes her face at
the sink. She applies toner, then moisturizer, as if she’s
carefully sealing something away inside herself.
Sitting down on her boatlike sofa, she picks up her
foundation compact. Her weak fingers drop the case. It
bounces once, with a small tak against the floor.
Automatically, she bends over, picks it up, and opens the
compact. The powder cake is shattered. Yukino gazes at the
fragments, steadily. Oh, it broke, she thinks, a little
belatedly. It feels as though it’s taking longer than usual for
the light to move from her eyes to her brain. Without any
warning, the inside of her nose twinges, and her eyes sting
with tears. Yukino presses her fingers against her eyelids,
as if she can push them back in. I’m not sad at all, so why
am I crying? she wonders.

“Sure hope the weather’s nice tomorrow.”

Murmuring the words quietly, she kicks her left foot into
the air, tossing her shoe. The pump rolls on the floor of the
arbor, falling on its side at the edge of the tiles with a little
clunk, like a small, expiring animal. That means tomorrow
will be cloudy. Hmm, Yukino thinks, opening the pull tab on
her can of beer and gulping down about a third of it
without coming up for air.
As she drinks, she notices that thousands of cicadas are
singing. Come to think of it, it’s been a long time since she
brought beer into this park, which charges admission and
technically doesn’t allow alcohol. A little while after she
met that boy, she started to bring disposable cups of coffee.
Well, that’s fine. After all, everybody has their quirks.
Alone, Yukino watches the park beneath the brilliant
light of an August morning.
A garden of light, shining madder red—
“The words came to me. Had I wished to write a second
half, I could instantly create as many different patterns as I
liked—” Or so Nukata no Ookimi had said.
Naturally, that’s completely impossible for me. I have no
idea what’s beyond the garden of light. I don’t even know
what was there, or what was possible. I can’t see any of it.
At twenty-seven, I’m no wiser than I was at fifteen.
As the sunlight grows brighter and the shadows darker
in the garden, Yukino feels as though she’s failing a test.

Excerpt: Yasushi Inoue, Lady Nukata no Ookimi (Shincho

Bunko)
 Akane sasu / murasakino yuki / shimeno yuki / nomori ha
mizu ya / kimi ga sode furu
(Man’yoshu volume 1:20) Translation: As I cross the field of
murasaki / shining madder red, / the forbidden land, / will
its guard not see you / wave your sleeve at me?

Context: A poem written by Nukata no Ookimi on May 5 in

668 (Tenji year 7), when Emperor Tenji went
hunting at Gamono in Omi. “You” refers to Emperor
Tenji’s younger brother, Prince Ooama, who
answers in the following poem. Murasaki is a plant
that blooms with white flowers in early summer; a
purple dye can be made from its roots. It was grown
at Gamouno. Shimeno is a different term for the
murasaki field; it indicates a field with NO
TRESPASSING markers set up. Waving one’s sleeve
was an expression of love.
 CHAPTER SIX

A Cigarette on the Balcony, Her Back as She Boarded the

Bus, If There’s Something I Can Do Now…
—Souichirou Itou
“You know why I’ve called you here, don’t you?”
I’ve made Takao Akizuki stand next to me, and I’m sure
my eyes are sharp as I watch him.
“Yes sir,” Akizuki answers briefly, with his eyes down like
any well-behaved child. Once I’m sure he isn’t going to
elaborate, I lower my voice and let a bit of my irritation
seep in.
“‘Yes sir’ tells me nothing. Tell me what you think the
reason is.”
“…I think it’s because I’ve been late a lot recently.”
“You what?”
“Huh?”
“You ‘think’?! How many times have you been late just
this month?!” I shout, and the teacher in the seat across
from mine jumps and looks over at us. Getting called to the
staff room and bawled out is enough to make timid students
tear up, but Akizuki is barely reacting. His almond-shaped
eyes and short-cropped hair make him look intelligent, and
his general reticence makes him come off as oddly mature.
Nothing cute or vulnerable about him. I take it up a notch.
“Do you think high school doesn’t matter? This isn’t
compulsory education; we don’t have to keep you here! Do
you think you’ll get to move on to the next grade or
graduate if you keep this up? …Well?!”
I wait, hoping he’ll try to talk back, but Akizuki just looks
down and stays quiet. He doesn’t apologize; he doesn’t
make excuses or lash out defensively. He’s a pretty tough
case, I think, as I realize that something’s bothering me. I
have the feeling I’m forgetting something about Akizuki.
Something unpleasant. What is it? I can’t remember. I
really want a cigarette.
Diiiing dooong diiiing doooong. The first bell signaling
the end of the lunch recess filters in through the speaker,
and everything feels so dull and apathetic.
“…Enough. Go. Keep doing what you’re doing, and I’ll
call your mom.”
Akizuki doesn’t even look visibly relieved. He just bows
once and leaves the staff room. I never did manage to
remember what it was. Well, whatever. If I can’t remember,
either it was my imagination or it wasn’t important.
“Mr. Itou, you can be so scary sometimes.”
As I pull together materials to take to the phys ed
instructors’ room, the English teacher in the seat across
from mine teases me.
“You could at least ask him why he’s been late.”
She’s older than me by more than a dozen years, and I
steal a glance at the wrinkled corners of her kind eyes. She
always looks at things from the students’ perspective and
treats them like independent adults, which is most likely
why she’s so popular. My role’s not the same as yours,
ma’am, I grumble inwardly.
“Akizuki certainly has been noticeably tardy, but he
hasn’t been creating any other problems; he’s a good boy.
Besides, if I recall, his family is…”
“A single-parent household. But he’s not the only one,
and it’s no excuse for being tardy. Besides, it doesn’t
matter why he’s late. During the first year, the important
thing to drum into them is the fact that rules are rules.”
She looks as if she’s about to say something, but before
she can, I get up from my chair with an armful of
documents.
“Excuse me, my next class is tennis.”
“Oh, the rain stopped.” The teacher looks out the
window, then waves with a rueful smile. “Good luck. If you
find time at some point, do eat lunch, please.”
She’s right; between getting the papers ready and
lecturing Akizuki, I haven’t had a chance to eat. She really
is a veteran, I think, a little impressed. She’s got sharp
eyes.
 Leaving the classroom, I walk down the hall quickly,
fighting the urge to break into a run. In the five minutes
left before my next class, I have to stop by the instructors’
room, give these documents to the chief phys ed instructor,
then get to the tennis court behind the pool. I’ll be cutting
it close. The hallway is flooded with students returning to
their various classrooms, but when they see me, most of
them flinch and get out of my way. The only ones who speak
to me are what you’d call delinquent types.
“Hey, Mr. Itou, did you catch the soccer game
yesterday?”
“No, I didn’t. Hurry up and get to class!” I respond to
one of my former students—a third-year boy who’ll be
joining the workforce right after graduation, I grumble to
myself in my mind. I wish I had time for at least one cig.

After my fifth-period tennis class with first-year kids,

sixth period is a track and field class for third-years. One of
my coworkers, a female phys ed teacher, came down with
something and took the day off, so I have to teach both the
boys and the girls today. Letting the girls know what was
going on ate up my ten-minute break, so I still haven’t
gotten my smoke.
Today, we’re measuring the high jump. I set up two mats
and bars side by side, one for guys and one for girls, then
have members from each group take turns running and
record their heights. The first-year boys in the previous
group were like a troop of wild monkeys, but for the third-
years, the novelty of gym class has worn off, and they’re
not invested in it at all. It’s no surprise. These guys are
going on to higher education, so for them especially, phys
ed is basically just a break. Plus, whenever you put guys
and girls together, they always get a little silly. In the lines
of kids waiting their turns, several students are whispering
together happily, although they’re trying to stay as quiet as
possible.
“You’re kidding, you’ve never eaten pancakes?”
“No, but, like, what makes them different from
hotcakes?”
“Do you wanna all go there today, then?”
“By the South Gate! You know, the one next to the
convenience store?”
I hear snatches of conversations. A memory of that
exhilaration peculiar to adolescence flickers through my
mind, when each word from the opposite sex is as enticing
as a mystery. These guys have been cramming for tests for
the last five classes, starting early in the morning; this final
gym class must feel like fun to them. With no warning
whatsoever, I kick a bucket by my feet at them as hard as I
can.
Claaaaaaaaang!
The bucket crashes into a field roller, sending a
cacophonous clatter echoing over the grounds. The
students stare at me, but I say nothing. Their expressions
gradually shift from bewilderment to fear.
“No talking during class. Sugimura, Yoneda, Nakajima,
Kikuji. Five laps,” I bark at them in a flat monotone.
The students are a mixed group of four that I picked
randomly from among the students who were talking. They
were far from the only ones, but in cases like this,
punishments don’t need to be fair. They just need to work
on the group.
“Get moving!”
They’re dragging their feet and glancing at each other,
but when I yell, the four of them take off running like
they’ve been shot. I start writing again, as if nothing
happened. None of the students open their mouths again
until class is over.

I finally get my smoke at almost exactly the same time

that I remember what Akizuki’s deal was. After sixth
period, I finally ate a late lunch while I consolidated the
lifestyle surveys for the first-years; then I coached my
basketball club for two hours, and after that I went back to
the staff room and put together the action plan for the off-
campus study coming up at the end of the month.
Now I can finally go home for the day. Exhausted and
limp, I lean against the wall of the staff entrance, look
around to make sure nobody’s there to see me, hunch over
a bit, and put a cigarette between my teeth. And as the
smoke is leaving my lungs like a sigh, I finally remember.
Oh, right. He’s the student who showed up in my dream
yesterday.
As I look up at the thin moon slicing open the purple sky,
I remember.
Right. And what an awful dream it was. There were
three of us there in the student guidance office after class:
me, Yukari’s mom, and one male student. I didn’t pick up
on it while I was dreaming, but now I realize the student
was Takao Akizuki.
Yukari was quitting her job at school, and I was
desperately explaining the reason to Yukari’s mom, whom
I’d never met, and Akizuki, who was probably a stand-in for
the entire student body.
“But you and Yukari were actually dating each other,
weren’t you?” her mother said.
“Were you lying to us the whole time?” asked Akizuki.
Dripping with sweat, I ground my head against the desk
and desperately groped for words.
“I can’t apologize enough to you. But we were seeing
each other seriously, and I do think the school is partially to
blame for Yukari’s…um, illness.”
“Illness? Are you saying she’s sick?”
“You two were dating on the sly, weren’t you, Mr. Itou?
Didn’t you love her? Isn’t it your job to take care of her?”
“Did you cast Yukari aside because she was ill?”
 “Nobody’s going to believe what you say anymore, Mr.
Itou.”
—Long story short, it was a nightmare.
Shaking my head, I shove my cigarette butt into my
portable ashtray, then start off toward the faculty parking
lot. As I begin to put on my full-face helmet, I remember
that I’m going to be drinking today. I’ll have to leave my
motorcycle at school.
I leave the school grounds and make for the subway
station on foot. There aren’t any students still around, but
the silent crowd of homebound commuters and the
clinging, saturated air of the rainy-season humidity are
extremely unpleasant companions.

Takao Akizuki is a fairly unremarkable student in the

new homeroom class I’ve had since April. He’s an
extremely ordinary fifteen-year-old, except for the fact that
he’s been living with his mom since his parents’ divorce a
few years back and his habit of being tardy in the
mornings. His grades are a bit above average, he wears his
uniform as it’s designed to be worn, and he doesn’t seem
isolated from the rest of the class. If I remember right, he
isn’t in any of the clubs.
A lot of students without an afterschool activity tend to
be the problem children, but in Akizuki’s case, he’s just
busy with part-time work thanks to his family situation.
He’s cooperative even in phys ed, and, according to his
other teachers, he sometimes sleeps in class instead of
listening, but he never chats. He doesn’t leave much of an
impact on you, really. Personally, he doesn’t strike me as a
student I need to keep an eye on, and he hasn’t even really
been tardy enough to get us bent out of shape. I only called
him out today because I figured it would be wiser to give
him a good strict warning sooner rather than later.
So given all that, I have no idea why the guy came up in
a dream about Yukari. I don’t teach Yukari’s homeroom
class, so she and Akizuki wouldn’t even know each other in
the first place.
Around the time I transfer to the Sobu Line at Shinjuku
Station, it starts raining again. The raindrops are scattered
across the window glass, hanging on for dear life. Each
drop of water holds the lights of the city inside it, and I
realize something as they go out of focus. Oh. I can’t put
my finger on why, exactly, but the two of them feel the
same. Like oil dropped into water, neither of them blends
with their surroundings.
You wouldn’t instantly pick them out of a crowd,
necessarily. They have friends, and they laugh, and they
don’t make waves. If you look closely, though, you can tell.
When you see hundreds of kids every year, you learn to
spot these types. Both Yukari and Akizuki secretly have
something in their hearts that’s special to them, that they’d
never hand over to somebody else. It may be something
strangers would value, or it could be totally worthless. I
can’t tell, and it doesn’t matter. But that divide between
them and everything around them is undeniable and
unbreachable.
That’s why I’m actually a little uncomfortable around
Akizuki, I realize, as I reflect on the matter again. It’s also
why I couldn’t resist Yukari.
Maybe it’s only natural that they’d show up in my dream
together. As I pensively watch the rain, it feels as if my
mood will stay dark forever.

“Geez, Souichirou, you look more evil every time I see you.”
We toast with canned beer, and that’s the first comment
anyone has for me. I’m a little more wounded than angry,
which catches even me off guard.
“You’re already big and intimidating, but that look in
your eyes will send the kids running for the hills.”
I drink some beer, think about what to say, then say it.
“Geez, Natsumi, you get mouthier every time I see you.”
Neatly ignoring my brilliant retort, Natsumi eyes me
over her beer can.
“Rough day at work, huh? Don’t take high schoolers too
seriously; you can just make a comment and they’ll get
ticked off.”
I’m not sure how to respond when somebody’s so openly
worrying for me, so I offer an evasive reply and pop a piece
of fried chicken into my mouth.
Natsumi’s long black hair hangs down to her chest, and
she holds it in place with one hand as she leans over the
table and scoops some jellyfish salad out of its plastic
container and onto a plate. Her bust gently forms a curve
in her white summer sweater; I keep catching glimpses of
it, and I glance up at the ceiling to avoid the awkwardness.
Then I take a look around Natsumi’s apartment under the
guise of rolling my neck.
It’s my first time visiting, but both the layout and the
vibe are a lot like my memories of her old place. Her living
room is about seventy square feet and bursting with stuff,
but it doesn’t feel cluttered. It’s an apartment where the
mess just makes the place feel more comfortable, which is
par for the course with Natsumi. The walls are lined with
those pasteboard storage cupboards with open fronts, and
she’s stuffed them with a jumble of paperbacks and big
hardcovers and CDs and makeup and hats and musical
instruments. I recognize about a third of the stuff, and have
no clue about the rest of it. Some of it clearly isn’t hers; I
can see video games in there, for example, and young
men’s magazines, and a shochu bottle. I guess her life’s
been pretty full, I think with a hint of jealousy. A lot can
happen in seven years. My next swallow of beer is a little
more bitter than the last one.
 I met Natsumi during my previous job at a real estate
company, and we dated for about two years.
I was working to become a phys ed teacher, and the real
estate company was supposed to be a temporary gig until I
passed the exam to become a teacher in Tokyo. The
workload in condo sales was way too heavy, at least for me;
I think the only reason I managed to pull through without
mental or physical health issues is that I had that goal of
becoming a teacher.
During those years, condos weren’t selling at all. Every
single day, our supervisor would lay into us (“Nobody eats
for free here. If you can’t move the properties, buy ’em
yourselves, you incompetents!”) or coworkers would quit,
their spirits or bodies broken.
And despite all of it, Natsumi was always smiling. We’d
been hired during the same season, she had sales results
that were just as lousy as mine, but she never stressed
about it. And it wasn’t a facade or a front; she was just
enjoying her life. She was hard to figure out, but her joy
was like an oasis in the desert of that savage workplace.
As we drank and groused about the company, we got
closer, and before we knew it, before the topic of romantic
feelings even came up, we were dating. We both liked
getting out, so on our days off, we’d go on road trips or
camping or we’d travel, blowing off all the steam from the
shit we put up with on the weekdays. We were still in our
twenties, and marriage and family and old age and illness
were all far away; the lives we would eventually settle into
were always just a little farther down the road, and that
meant we were free of any responsibilities. Now that I
think about it, those were happy times.
Three years later, I passed the teacher employment
exam, and at almost the same time, Natsumi decided to go
to Cuba on exchange (anywhere would have done, but
apparently Cuba was the cheapest place), and so we
decided to break up. No conflict; this was just how it had to
be. The hopes we harbored for our new destinations far
outweighed our loneliness.
About four months back, Natsumi got in touch with me
for the first time in several years. I was thirty-two, teaching
my eighth year of phys ed at my second high school, after
being transferred.
Souichirou, how are you doing? It’s been a while; let’s go
get a drink.
Her nonchalant request had come in from out of
nowhere on a messaging app. At the time, I was dealing
with some serious trouble that had spilled over into my
private life. I took her up on her offer without a second
thought, hoping I’d be able to forget about the whole mess
for a little while.
When Natsumi and I met up in that pub in Nishi-
Ogikubo, she’d hardly changed at all; her skin was a little
darker than the last time I’d seen her, but her smile and
easygoing nature were exactly the same. I’d assumed she
had just returned from Cuba, but it turned out she’d been
back for five years already and was working for a cell
phone game company. Melancholy seemed to be a
completely foreign concept to her, and I genuinely had fun
drinking with her. It certainly didn’t rekindle our romance,
but ever since then, we’ve been comfortable drinking pals
who meet once a month or so.
Today, we met at our usual pub for the first time in three
weeks, but the place happened to be too full for us.
Natsumi lived in the neighborhood, and so we decided to
go to her apartment and drink instead. We stopped by a
sake shop and a deli for groceries, and now, for the first
time in several years, I’m at Natsumi’s place.

I don’t notice the missed call from Yukari until we’ve

gone through the snacks and cans of beer from the store
and switched over to Natsumi’s bottle of red wine. I
casually open my cell phone, and there it is, from two hours
ago.
Now that I think about it, I remember telling her I’d call
her about a week ago. Work got busy on me, and I forgot.
On weekdays, I have a whole lot of administrative work on
top of regular classes in the form of allocating school
duties, and my weekends are almost entirely taken up by
club activities and sports meets and similar events. I’m
actually a lot busier now than I was during my time in real
estate sales.
“What’s this, hmm? Your girlfriend?”
Natsumi points at me and smirks, her face flushed with
liquor. I’m still almost sober. I couldn’t get drunk on beer if
I tried, no matter how many cans I had.
“No. I told you before; we broke up before the new
term.”
“Hmm,” she says with disinterest. Then she stands up,
yawning. “…I think it’s about time for some coffee.
Souichirou, if you want to smoke, go out on the balcony.”
So Natsumi’s place has finally gone nonsmoking, too,
huh? After I watch her head into the kitchen, I go out onto
the balcony, feeling a little like I’ve been chased out. The
space is small, a token attempt at a balcony, really, and the
air conditioner’s external unit takes up half the space. The
damp concrete reminds me that the rain has stopped.
Falling, stopping… That must be a lot of work. I light a
cigarette and take a deep drag. When I happen to look to
the side, I see a small potted plant and a pink pitcher
sitting on top of the external unit.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m being unfaithful to both of them
somehow, and I shake my head. That’s not true. I’ve
already broken up with Yukari, and Natsumi’s just a good
friend who keeps coming back. Besides, she’s probably
concerned about how her resignation is coming along. I’m
calling not as her ex, but as a colleague. I select “Yukari
Yukino” from the address book on my phone, then hit the
CALL button.

Even now, I clearly remember the sight of her when she

first came to work, two years ago.
“My name is Yukari Yukino, and I’ve been sent to teach
Japanese. I’m still a novice; I taught in Kokubunji for three
years, and this is my second school. I’d like to learn a lot
from my older, wiser colleagues and to grow along with the
students.”
My first thought was, She doesn’t look real. There was
nothing unique about her medium-length black hair and
navy suit, yet they couldn’t have emphasized the beauty of
her figure more. She had a face so petite that I could have
covered it with one of my hands; pure white skin; and
large, liquid eyes. Her shoulders, hips, and legs were all so
slim, you couldn’t help but notice her chest. Her voice,
trembling with nerves, was as sweet as a middle schooler’s.
She was… How do I put this delicately? Like a love doll.
Even I thought that was a terrible association to make, and
yet the more I saw of her, the stronger the thought grew.
I’d seen them online or somewhere like that: beautiful
vessels, stripped of their wills, nothing but the twisted ideal
of men given physical shape. This can’t be good. The
students are gonna have a field day with her. Either that, or
the guys will fall for her.
Still, my worries proved to be unfounded. Everybody
liked Yukari, and she was a model teacher. She always did
her very best with a smile, no matter what was going on,
and although she definitely wasn’t especially clever, her
deep sincerity and modesty naturally charmed people.
Her classes were popular, too. The public high school
curriculum had a tendency to just churn through the work
assigned by the Ministry of Culture, but Yukari seemed to
love her subject. She told her students about how the
worlds of novels and the classics had saved her during
adolescence, and her carefully planned classes were
backed up by that experience and enthusiasm. Before long,
she’d won the kids over. When classes got Yukari as their
Japanese teacher, their average grades went up, without
exception. She was popular with the male students,
unsurprisingly, but from the leaked stories I heard, she
seemed pretty well versed in ways of turning them down
without hurting them too much.
It was simple: Yukari was much better suited to teaching
than I was. Well, so much the better. Whenever I saw her
among the students, I genuinely thought so. It was much
better than a new teacher creating problems, directly or
indirectly.
On the other hand, Yukari apparently hadn’t thought
much of me at all.
“I was just startled to see a teacher who looked like a
gangster at my school,” Yukari once jokingly told me, after
we’d gotten closer.
All I could do was smile a little awkwardly. I knew she’d
seen me bawling out students in the halls and on the sports
fields multiple times. After all, I’d decided that whenever I
yelled at students, I’d do it in front of a crowd.
It didn’t hurt me one bit to learn that this young,
beautiful, and obviously popular new teacher thought of me
that way. In fact, I wanted no part of the acquisition race
that had abruptly broken out among the single male faculty
members over Yukari, so her distaste for me worked out in
my favor.

We ended up getting closer in September, at the faculty

party to celebrate finishing the cultural festival, the school
trip, and the parent-student-teacher meetings. There were
more than thirty of us there—all completely drunk—in a big
room at a cheap chain pub, and the banquet was in full
swing. I was sipping bad sake at the foot of the table when,
all of a sudden, I heard our vice-principal calling me over.
“Heeey, Mr. Itou, got a minute?”
I worked my way up between the backs of my coworkers
and the wall. At the head of the table, the vice-principal
was pleasantly drunk and all smiles, chatting with Yukari.
“See, we were talking about who on staff could hold
their liquor the best. Now, I would’ve put my money on you,
Mr. Itou, hands down, but Ms. Yukino here… She’s been
drinking and drinking and she’s not even flushed!” he said
cheerfully, watching her.
The vice-principal had loosened his tie beneath his
double chin (which was a surprising feature, given how
skinny he was). Yukari appeared to be looking to me for
help.
“So we wanted to put the question to rest here and now,
see who was the heaviest drinker at our school! Isn’t that
right, Ms. Yukino?”
“No, um, that wasn’t what I… Look, I’m sure this will
make trouble for Mr. Itou, too, and I should probably…”
Yukari was desperately trying to talk him down. I felt
terrible for her; she was so flustered, she seemed ready to
cry. When I looked around at the other staff members, they
were all pretending they were too engrossed in their
separate conversations to hear. I sighed a little. The vice-
principal was a persistent boss, and drinking made him
even more obstinate. He’d get drunk after only a little
alcohol, but he could last for ages without passing out, and
he loved to mess with the people around him. Unfamiliar
with his habits, Yukari had failed to make her getaway in
time. One of her neighbors really should have rescued her.
“All right,” I told the vice-principal. He gave a whoop.
Most of our colleagues couldn’t stand this supervisor, but I
didn’t feel that way. He could be calm and logical as a
manager when he needed to be.
I turned to my bewildered-looking companion.
“What’s your favorite type of liquor, Ms. Yukino?”
 “Huh…? I like Japanese sake, but, um…”
Without letting her argue, I pushed the button on the
table and put in an order. “Let’s go with that, then. Excuse
me. Bring us four go of chilled sake and two cups.”
A big, 750-milliliter sake decanter arrived. I poured
about a quarter of it into each of the cups, then handed one
to Yukari. At some point, the faculty around us had begun
to look our way with a mixture of interest and worry.
Ignoring Yukari’s obvious unease, I just said, “Okay,
cheers,” and clinked my glass against hers.
Steeling herself, Yukari raised her glass to her lips. I shot
her a glance, then knocked back the entire contents of my
glass in one gulp. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the
shock of my coworkers. I poured the same amount into my
glass again, drained it again, then drank down the last
quarter. Before Yukari had emptied half her glass, I’d put
away three go of sake.
Applause and cheers rose around us. The vice-principal
was clapping wildly, apparently the most excited of the
bunch. Yukari wasn’t even sure what had happened, and
our eyes met. Slowly, the tension melted from that delicate
face of hers, and then she smiled gently.
It’s like watching a flower bloom. As the alcohol reached
into the core of my mind, I genuinely thought Yukari was
beautiful for the first time.

“—All right. We’ll take care of the resignation procedures

after the end of summer vacation. I’ll tell the higher-ups for
you.”
Out on the balcony, I reassure Yukari and end the call.
Now that I’ve told her what I had to tell her, I’m just a little
relieved.
I think it was probably around the third term, after the
new year began. Gradually, Yukari started calling out from
work more and more often. At first, she was sick once a
week or so, but before long, she was out more than she was
in. In the end, she made it to school about half the time
during the third term, and she hadn’t been in more than a
handful of times since April. I think it’s safe to say that
under those circumstances, the school was being very
generous in letting her submit her resignation herself
instead of forcing her to resign.
I exhale the smoke on a long breath, letting my whole
body relax. I look around the balcony but don’t see an
ashtray, so I grudgingly take my portable ashtray out of my
pocket.
When I step back into the apartment, Natsumi is
drinking coffee and watching TV. The blue cheese that
accompanied our wine is drying out, and it somehow
reminds me of an abandoned village. I haven’t been back
home in quite a while, I think, out of nowhere, as I sit down
across from Natsumi. She doesn’t even glance my way.
Come to think of it, she does tend to focus so hard on
things that she loses touch with everything around her.
She’s always been that way. I’m staring at the cheese,
hesitating between drinking wine and drinking coffee,
when—
“All right, see you later,” Natsumi says abruptly. I can’t
read the emotion in her voice.
For a moment, I almost ask her what she said. “—Uh, oh,
right… I haven’t cleaned up the mess I made with the
snacks…”
“It’s fine. I’ll text you later.” Natsumi gives me a very
small smile. Well, more of a subtle tilt at the corners of her
lips. The smile is more in the eye of the beholder.
In other words, “Get lost already.” That doesn’t sit quite
right with me, but I might have overstepped and stayed too
long when we aren’t even going out. Besides, it’s probably
better than accidentally having to stay here overnight and
letting something happen.
 So I thank Natsumi and leave her apartment. Since I left
my motorcycle at school, I’ll be in for a packed commute
tomorrow morning, too. It’s frustrating, but I don’t have an
outlet for it now as I cram myself into the train.

I could marry her. I want to marry her. I want her to marry

me. I want to marry her and make her mine forever. I’d
never thought any of those things about anyone until I met
Yukari.
Ever since that incident at the pub, we’d started talking
at school, little by little. That said, we didn’t want the
students to see us chatting, and I did the majority of my
desk work in the phys ed instructors’ room. So the only
times I could talk to her were brief moments in the morning
or when we met in the staff room after school.
Once we’d gotten a bit closer, I became keenly aware of
just how special a woman Yukari was. Just meeting her eyes
was enough to make you forget everything else. It was a
power not even she could control.
There are some natural sights that create a kind of
irresistible awe, and she was the same. Being near her was
all you needed. Who could avoid a typhoon that covers the
sky or an earthquake that shakes the ground beneath their
feet? That was the kind of woman Yukari was. I’d never met
anyone like her.
She caught me, I thought, and I wasn’t sure whether
that made me happy or not. To be honest, I’d known she
was an extraordinary woman the moment I first laid eyes
on her. I hated being bound by something stronger than I
was; the idea was terrifying to me, and I’m sure I’d been
carefully avoiding her for that reason…but it was too late
now.
Just exchanging a word or two with Yukari would create
a warmth in my chest that would last until I fell asleep that
night. On the days we didn’t talk, everything around me
looked duller than usual. It was like a hopeless middle-
school first love. No—it was worse.
Before long, just seeing her at school wasn’t enough, and
I started inviting her to restaurants and movies on our days
off. Yukari was a gentle, reserved woman. Her health
seemed relatively delicate, and she sometimes had fevers
or spells of anemia. To a guy like me, who didn’t even catch
a cold once a year, it was just one more mystery about her.
She always seemed vaguely tense, and her voice had a little
quiver. Every time I heard it, I was desperate to protect her,
so desperate I could weep.
I put a helmet on her petite head, set her on the back of
my bike, and took her to Okutama and Nikko and Hakone.
She said she hadn’t done much sightseeing since she came
to Tokyo, and everywhere we went, she seemed to be
enjoying herself. It was a smile so beautiful it hurt, like a
needle that lanced straight into the softest place in the
human heart, and there was no escaping it.
I’d found my ideal woman—it was something like a
miracle. It felt as if by some astronomical coincidence, I’d
been wandering through Tokyo and happened to spot a rare
butterfly indigenous to a single remote island.
It wasn’t long before I realized with some astonishment
that just seeing Yukari talking to students during breaks
made me jealous. The kids always flocked to her anyway,
but that was around the time one particular girl had
virtually latched on to her. She was a first-year student
named Shouko Aizawa, attractive and popular, and one of
my homeroom students. She was a beauty, her grades were
good, and she was a natural leader. Girls like her often
become the stars of the school. Several of the guys in the
basketball club had gotten shot down. The sight of Yukari
and Aizawa walking side by side like sisters in the low light
of the corridor—it was as beautiful and striking as film
clipped from an old movie.
 —Yup. Pathetic as it was, I was jealous of a sixteen-year-
old girl. I had to make Yukari mine before somebody else
took her. It sounds so stupid, but Shouko Aizawa gave me
the push I needed. On Christmas night, Yukari and I went
out for dinner, and while we were walking back to the
station, I pulled her into a hug and said it out loud.
“I love you. And I want you to love me back.”
To this day, I can still hear her tremulous “All right” in
my ears.
I was unbelievably happy back then.
And now, I sometimes seriously worry that that voice
may never leave my ears again.

***

Summer vacation ended, and the second term has begun.

It was the rainy season when Natsumi and I drank at her
apartment, so it’s been almost two months since then. I’ve
spent my days in a constant struggle to stay on top of my
work. It might have been summer vacation for the students,
but that time is always business as usual for faculty
members. In my case, the basketball club had practice and
away games, so I was actually busier than usual. I
contacted Natsumi a few times, but our schedules never
matched up. We haven’t seen each other since that day.

Come to think of it, it’s been even longer since Yukari

and I met face-to-face like this. When was the last time…?
Probably in April, on the last day she managed to come to
work. Now, with Yukari standing right in front of me in the
staff room, her color seems a bit better than it’s been for a
while. Even though it’s summer, she’s wearing dark-navy
slacks and a long-sleeved charcoal-gray jacket over a white
blouse. I’m in a tracksuit, and somehow I feel even seedier
than usual. It’s true; no matter what’s going on, Yukari
always dresses impeccably, and no matter what she’s
wearing, she wears it better than any magazine model.
There’s no emotion in her eyes—but Yukari is transparently
beautiful in a way that would make even the hardest heart
tremble.
“All right. Let’s get going,” I prompt her.
“Yes, thank you for your help.”
“No, no, don’t mention it. The principal should be
waiting for us.”
We speak to each other politely. I thought I’d put a tight
lid on my heart, but that constant pain is always
threatening to show. If only Yukari felt the same, I think as
we walk side by side out of the staff room. We’re on our
way to the principal’s office to formally submit her
resignation.
“Ms. Yukino!” someone calls to us in the hallway, and
one of the girls runs up to us.
It’s Hiromi Satou from year two. She’s a diligent student,
but thanks to her vast and varied circle of friends, she ends
up being a broadcast center for gossip. As I’m internally
rolling my eyes with annoyance, other students spot Yukari
and come running over, one or two at a time. “Ms. Yukino,
Ms. Yukino,” they all call to her.
Look at them; they idolize you. And you’re quitting the
school? I think for a moment, feeling an unwarranted,
misplaced irritation. And yes, I know I’m the one who
moved her resignation process forward.
In no time, the students have us surrounded, and Yukari
is getting anxious. I pull myself together for a round of
reprimands.
“Satou, leave it for later, all right? That goes for the rest
of you, too.”
The students look at me as if they’ve got a bone to pick.
Their eyes are more intense than I expected, and I almost
flinch. Yukari steps in to mediate.
“I’m sorry, guys. I’ll be at school until after fifth period,
so come talk to me later. I’ll have time then.”
Reluctantly, the students back off. “Let’s go,” I tell
Yukari. Just as we begin walking, I catch a glimpse of Takao
Akizuki out of the corner of my eye. Out of nowhere, I
wonder if he knew about Yukari, too.

“Ms. Yukino, I’m sure you’re well aware of this by now,

but here’s the thing about teachers: They get to work
before eight, they’re tied down here until close to five, but
of course they can’t go home at five, and they don’t receive
overtime benefits. It’s taken for granted that they’ll work
on the weekends, they take salary cuts because people
demand that their pay be kept in line with the private
sector, and they’re reviled for having pensions that are
significantly higher than the private sector’s. They get no
respect from students or their guardians, the education
they provide is criticized as useless even though they’re
only complying with the requirements of the Ministry of
Culture, and yet they’re compelled to fly the flag and sing
the national anthem together because they’re public
servants. They have to keep the Board of Education happy,
and the parent, and the students, and the public. This is a
worthless job.”
What the hell is he talking about? I wonder, watching the
vice-principal’s face. Yukari is sitting quietly on the sofa,
listening with her head bowed, but when I glance over at
her, I can spot a faint smile in her eyes. The principal’s
office is well insulated from the outside, and only the slight
hum of the air conditioner and the muffled racket of the
students on their lunch break reach us.
The four of us—Yukari and I, the principal and vice-
principal—are sitting on black reception sofas, facing each
other across a table. For a while now, the principal has
been sipping tea as if he accidentally wandered into the
wrong meeting. Meanwhile, the vice-principal keeps
talking.
“You see, Ms. Yukino, if I were just a little younger, I
would love to quit public education once and for all and
open a cram school. There’s really no reason for students
or teachers to stay in a place that’s treating them poorly.
I’m a little too old to quit now, though.”
Was that just a joke I didn’t get? No, the vice-principal is
just being excessively candid. I can’t say I fully sympathize
with him, but his opinion does create some heat in my
chest.
“It’s a shame to lose you, but I have no choice but to
accept your letter of resignation. To tell the truth, I am a
little jealous.”
After he’s finished speaking, the vice-principal sends the
principal a silent signal with his eyes. The principal picks
up the resignation request from the table.
“Thank you for all your hard work, Ms. Yukino,” he says
briefly.
“I’m terribly sorry for all the trouble I caused you. Thank
you very much for everything these past two and a half
years.”
Yukari bows her head deeply, her voice full of dignity.

The short version is, Yukari quit because her mind and
body fell so out of tune that she couldn’t come to school. To
put it in familiar terms, it was burnout. But the reality of it
wasn’t so easy to put into words. I can share my side of it,
and so can everyone else involved with the whole thing, but
I’m pretty sure nobody really understands exactly what
happened.
The first sign I remember came up last September, about
nine months after I’d hugged Yukari on Christmas.
Naturally, we’d been keeping our relationship a secret from
both the students and the other teachers.
 “Mr. Itou, do you know Shouko Aizawa in my class?”
Yukari’s question came after we’d had dinner at my
apartment. For a former salesman like me, the custom of
calling each other Mr. or Ms. (the way our students did) felt
strange, and I’d started calling Yukari by her first name in
private. Meanwhile, Yukari kept on calling me Mr. Itou. “It’s
a habit,” she’d once told me. “I just can’t seem to correct
it.” I didn’t like the distance it created, but at the same
time, that clumsiness was endearing.
“Sure, I know her. I was her first-year homeroom
teacher. She was hard to forget with her looks and
personality, but there weren’t any real problems with her.”
As I said it, I remembered that Aizawa had provided me
with that initial impetus to confess my feelings to Yukari,
but of course I couldn’t tell her that.
“I see… Miss Aizawa is in my class now, and—”
According to Yukari, when the second term began,
Aizawa’s attitude had abruptly changed. Up until then,
she’d had a puppylike adoration for Yukari, but lately she’d
started lashing out.
“She’s intentionally late to my classes, and when I speak
to her, she ignores me.”
“Hmm. Yeah, the kids can practically change into
different people over that month of summer vacation.”
As I answered, I searched my memory for details on
Shouko Aizawa. If I remembered right, her dad was a
manager at a famous advertising agency, and her family
was fairly well off, with a place in Shoutou. The girl was
also extremely attractive and tended to get a lot of stares,
which seemed to have gone to her head, but at least as a
first-year, she hadn’t caused trouble. That said, I had no
idea what was going on in the hearts of the female
students. The school separated the guys and girls for phys
ed, and once you weren’t their homeroom teacher anymore,
you just lost track of them.
I think I just told Yukari I’d keep an eye on her, but I
never thought it would be a big deal. After all, minor
problems with students were a really common thing for any
teacher.
But Yukari and Aizawa’s situation just kept rolling
downhill and gaining speed all the way to the end of the
year. Aizawa led the class in a group boycott of Yukari’s
lessons, and students who talked to Yukari started getting
shunned by the rest. Aizawa was a surprisingly charismatic
ringleader, and before too long, most of the class was
hostile to Yukari. When it started affecting her lessons,
Yukari’s position in the staff room rapidly worsened as well.
Naturally, she was completely exhausted.
But even after all that, I thought it was a problem she
should manage herself. She came to me for advice several
times, but the third term was a busy one already, and I just
couldn’t bring myself to believe that the trouble was 100
percent Aizawa’s fault. Yukari had to be doing something
wrong, too, which meant she should have plenty of options
that didn’t involve other people. We’d chosen to become
teachers of our own free will, and the job had always
included stuff like this. I even believed that her resolving
the problem herself would ultimately be in her best
interest.
Before long, a rumor that Yukari had made a pass at
Aizawa’s boyfriend began to spread through the school. It
was ridiculous gossip, patent kid stuff, but I still got curious
and looked into it. Apparently, Aizawa’s boyfriend had
developed a one-way crush on Yukari and told her how he
felt. Of course Yukari had turned him down, but it had
stung Aizawa’s pride. When I asked Yukari, she wouldn’t
tell me exactly who the boy was, but she more or less
confirmed the rest.
I dug deeper and managed to identify the kid who’d
made the love confession, a third-year named Makino. To
make matters worse, he was in my homeroom, and the
captain of the basketball club, which I’d advised until the
previous year. I really debated whether I should talk with
him about it. Makino was a good student with a strong
sense of responsibility. Even if he had fallen for Yukari, that
wasn’t his fault. Still, he was in a relationship with Aizawa,
so he shouldn’t go behind her back. Should I point that out
to him? On the other hand, I was secretly dating Yukari
myself. What right did I have to put Makino in his place
when I was already feeling guilty myself? I hesitated—and I
really shouldn’t have. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, but I
should’ve done it, my own convenience be damned.
While I dragged my feet, the situation spiraled
completely out of control. A fire may be set by human
hands, but after a certain point, the flames are spreading
on their own. Hatred and antipathy are the same way. By
the end, it isn’t even clear who started it; it keeps burning
until the very last beam comes crashing down.
I know that now. That beam was probably Yukari’s sense
of taste, her spirit, her body. By the time the rumor spread
to the students’ parents, Yukari couldn’t even come to
school anymore because of the harassment. And even then,
I couldn’t stop seeing her absences from work as a kind of
failure of self-sufficiency. The circumstances didn’t matter;
she should come to school, confront Aizawa, and solve her
own problem. It had to still be possible. I was so sure of it.

It was a long, dark, painful winter for everybody.

My dad, who’d been living in our family home in Sendai,
passed away that winter. He was past eighty—I was a late
baby. By the time they found his pancreatic cancer, it was
already Stage IV. My father had refused the treatment,
which would have been painful, and passed away peacefully
after six months in palliative care. He’d probably had
conflicting feelings about everything, but right to the end,
he never showed his son anything resembling weakness. I
went to visit him just a few days before he died, and I still
remember what he told me.
“I don’t have much of anything to leave you, but…,” he’d
said. “Just…make sure you find somebody you can love
more deeply than yourself. If you can manage that, you’ve
got it made in life.”

When I broke up with Yukari, my dad’s wish for me was

what I remembered.
Had I loved Yukari more than I loved myself? Probably
not. I’d been paralyzed since long before things had gotten
this bad. Before, my attraction to her had felt like the pull
of some unfathomable vortex; before, I would have begged
for the chance to marry her. Except…those feelings hadn’t
changed, actually, or even weakened. And yet I let go of her
hand so easily, it seemed unreal.
Something had been lost to me forever, and I’d never
even noticed. There had been a bond between us once, one
that might have grown stronger and stouter if it weren’t for
this mess. And we’d lost it for eternity.
On that freezing, snowy March night, when Yukari
visited my apartment for the first time in quite a while, I
knew this was the end for us the moment I saw her. It was
less that I understood it logically and more as if I were
watching thick rain clouds approach over a plain with
nothing to obstruct the view. Our breakup was simply right
there in front of me.
Yukari had cut her long hair so short that it didn’t even
reach her shoulders. Her eyes no longer held any of the
affection and trust they had once held. All I could see was
exhaustion, fear, and suspicion. I finally, finally realized that
I’d been just as culpable as Aizawa and her cronies in
bringing her to this.
“I’m really sorry,” Yukari said, in that trembling voice
that always touched my heart like a gentle caress. “I’m
sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you. We really do need to
end this, don’t we?”
Come to think of it, I’d even forced her to say those last
words to me, too. While I watched her boarding an empty
city bus from the stop near my apartment, I realized I’d
encountered a miracle—and yet, without even lifting a
finger, I’d managed to bury it forever.

The bell that encourages students to head home echoes

through the depopulated school building.
The next thing I know, everything around me is dyed a
blazing sunset, the sort you see after a typhoon has passed.
Yukari has finished packing up her belongings, and from
the staff room window, I watch her walk through the school
gate alone. Several students run up and grab her, crying.
Yukari is saying something to them, her expression gentle.
As I gaze at her smile, tinted by the lonely red of the
sunset, it occurs to me that neither of us ever shed a tear,
not even at the end.

***

We had a lot of typhoons that autumn.

Huge masses of wind and rain came to shake up the air
of the Kanto area, suddenly bringing summer heat or
winter cold like a series of pranks. But autumn still
gradually deepened, turning the leaves of the gingko trees
along the street yellower the more the sun touched them.
The leaves fell little by little, the people’s clothes thickened
one layer at a time, and at last the season gave way to
winter.

I’ll probably never see Yukari again. I really should have

spent my whole life with her, but her time with me is over.
That regret might never leave me until I die. But just as the
ground slowly absorbs moisture even after the rain has
stopped, Yukari has left a few epilogues behind.

On that day in the second term when Yukari left the

school, there was an incident. After class, Takao Akizuki got
into a fistfight with several third-year students. An
eyewitness reported it, and I went to break it up. It was
less a fight than Akizuki getting beat up. Shouko Aizawa
was there in that group of third-year kids, and she looked
upset. My understanding was that Akizuki had started it by
hitting her, but nobody would give me any more details.
There wasn’t a mark on Aizawa, while Akizuki’s face was
bruised and dark.
Technically, we should have treated this as a serious act
of violence, but I couldn’t drag any of the particulars out of
them. Everyone was in the deep shadow that Yukari’s
absence had left behind. But I thought that Akizuki had
done what I’d never been able to do. I bundled the
protesting kid into a taxi bound for the hospital, and as I
glanced at him, sitting sullen and silent in the rear seat, I
realized I was just a little fond of him. He was probably
living with a world inside him, invisible to everyone and
certainly to me.

It was the end of December, with New Year’s just around

the corner, when I spotted Shouko Aizawa in town during
vacation.
School was already out for winter break. I’d been
wandering around Shibuya with no particular destination in
mind when I happened to see Aizawa sitting in the window
of a café. She was by herself, languidly smoking a cigarette.
In her mocha-colored leather jacket, bold makeup, and
bleached curls, most people would’ve taken her for a
college student. No one would’ve questioned it.
 I went into the café, plopped down next to Aizawa, and
wordlessly took the cigarette away from her. She looked at
me, startled. I was wearing a stocking cap, pulled down
low, and a down jacket instead of my tracksuit, and she
didn’t seem to recognize me.
“If you’re going to smoke, do it so you don’t get caught,”
I told her, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray. After
staring at me for a while, Aizawa finally snapped back at
me.
“Oh, it’s Mr. Itou. Stay out of my private life, all right?”
She didn’t look the slightest bit ashamed. Even so, she
struck me as awfully sad and alone, and I just couldn’t get
up the energy to reprimand her. I took out a cigarette of my
own and lit it. The puff of smoke was absolutely my way of
showing off, and Aizawa glared at me resentfully. I looked
through the window at the people passing by outside.
“…Did something happen to you?” I asked.
“Of course it did. I can’t go a day without ‘something
happening,’” Aizawa murmured.
That was a blunt reply. I studied her face, and from this
distance, her cheeks and forehead still seemed like a
child’s. Her eyes were red and damp, as if she’d been
crying until just a minute before. This poor thing, I thought.
She can try as hard as she wants to look mature, and she
has her whole class wrapped around her finger—but she’s
still just a kid.
“…What about you, Mr. Itou? Did something happen?”
Aizawa asked.
Maybe my silence had made things awkward or
uncomfortable.
—Me? Did something happen to me?
“I…”
What had happened to bring me here?
“A long time ago…”
A long time ago, I’d let a student get hurt.
It was back when I’d just started teaching. At the first
school I was assigned to, one of the first things the
principal told me was “Itou, as far as the students are
concerned, you’re the bad cop.” He wanted me to
reprimand the kids and keep them on edge. Their
homeroom teachers would take care of the rest. Naive as I
was, I’d wanted to be the kind of teacher who built
relationships akin to friendships with his students, so I was
really disappointed with the advice.
So I rebelled. I’d stuck it out through three years in
sales, a job that had never been my thing, and finally gotten
the teaching job I’d wanted for years. I had ideals of my
own.
But when they put me in charge of the handball club,
those ideals were shattered. During a practice match with
another school, one of the kids on my team crashed into a
goalpost and gave himself a concussion. His life was never
in danger, but the sight in his left eye would never be the
same.
It was a shock. I had no idea how to begin to make up for
that. Since it had been an accident during a game, I wasn’t
held responsible, and neither the student nor his parents
blamed me. But I knew I had failed to remind my kids to
straighten up and look sharp, and the regret ate at me.
Accidents and injuries happen when you relax. The role of a
phys ed teacher was, first and foremost, not to let students
get hurt.
And so in my first year of teaching, I resolved to be the
guy who made you straighten up whenever he walked by.
I’d yell at them, even when it wasn’t completely fair. I’d be
the terror of the school, the one who never gave them a
chance to let their guard down.
“‘A long time ago’ what?”
“…Nothing. Don’t smoke. It boosts your risk of lung
cancer, it wrecks your skin, and it’s expensive.”
“Don’t tell me that when you’re breathing it in my face!”
Aizawa waved a hand to dispel the cloud from my lungs,
genuinely grumpy. She looked so much like a little kid, I
had to laugh.
“Seriously, Mr. Itou, what is with you?!”
“Ha-ha, sorry. I haven’t ordered yet, so I’m gonna go get
some coffee. Want anything? My treat.”
Aizawa eyed me dubiously, but I just stood up. If Yukari
was gone for good, then I had to make a change of some
sort. And if there was anything I could do now for the
woman I’d never see again, it would definitely have to do
with Shouko Aizawa.
“Huh, for real? Why? Um, okay-okay, so, a mocha chip
Frappuccino!”
I lifted a hand to acknowledge the order without looking
back, and I started walking.
 Masurawo ya / katakohisemu to / nagekedomo / shiko no
masurawo / naho kohi ni keri
(Man’yoshu volume 2:117) Translation: To think that I, / a
man so desirable, / should have these unrequited feelings! /
And yet to mourn thus is a disgrace, / and I only yearn for
you more.

Context: A poem Prince Toneri wrote for Toneri no Otome.

As a government official, he was a worthy man, yet
his uncontrollable feelings of love confounded him.
 CHAPTER SEVEN

The One I Idolized, Drawing Eyebrows on a Rainy Morning,

What I Deserve.
—Shouko Aizawa
I wish I’d just run into somebody. I wish somebody would
take me away from here.
As I’m spacing out in a café, thinking pointless things, I
run into Mr. Itou, of all people. Just as I notice this
ridiculously built guy plopping down next to me, he plucks
the cigarette right out of my mouth.
What?! Who the hell?! For a moment, I panic a little.
When I stare at the man in the stocking cap, trying to get a
handle on the situation, it turns out to be Mr. Itou. He was
my homeroom teacher during my first year, but he always
wears his tracksuit and looks like a gym teacher at school,
so I didn’t recognize him. He’s wearing a quilted down
jacket with the collar standing straight up, and he seems
even more like a thug than he does at school.
He’s a stern-looking teacher, and the kids are pretty
scared of him, but for some reason, he doesn’t tell me off
about smoking today. (He does say to knock it off, but he
kinda doesn’t seem to care.) He even buys me a caramel
Frappuccino. (I’d actually told him to get a mocha chip, but
he got it wrong.) “Here, I got you the really big one,” he
says, shoving a venti in my face.
“…Thank you.”
I take a sip through the straw, and he watches me
steadily. I can’t relax. Talk about uncomfortable. What in
the world is this about?
“What do you think, Shouko Aizawa? Is it good?”
Why is he calling me by my full name? I answer in a
small voice, “…It’s okay.”
“What?”
“Yes. It is.”
“I see. Okay then, once winter break is over, come to the
career guidance office.”
“Huh?”
 “You drank that, remember?”
“Oh, come on, that’s dirty!”
“So you learned something: Nothing’s more expensive
than ‘free.’”
“Seriously, what is your problem? You’re the one who
offered to buy it for me!”
I keep grumbling, but Mr. Itou ignores me, reminds me
of the career counseling date again, then makes a quick
exit from the café with his latte in hand. Ugh, geez. That’s
so frustrating and annoying, but…
But I still feel a faint, ticklish happiness, as though
someone’s roughly tousled my hair. Even though it’s
December of my third year of high school, I still haven’t
decided what I want to do with my life. For the whole year,
no matter what anyone around me said, I kept turning in
my “desired course” forms blank. By now, I should be a sort
of untouchable entity for the teachers: As long as I at least
graduate, they should be happy… Although even I don’t
really understand why things turned out this way.

I’ve finished my gigantic Frappuccino, and the cityscape

is actually brighter than the sky now. I can’t just camp out
in here forever, so I put on my face mask, stick my earbuds
into my ears, wrap my scarf around my neck, put on my
black stocking cap, and shuffle out of the café. I’d really
like to wear sunglasses, too, but it would make me look way
too suspicious, so for now I keep my eyes lowered as I start
down the hill road. I’ve drawn on eyebrows, added extra
eyelashes, and put on blush and lipstick, but out in town, I
keep all of it under wraps. What on earth am I trying to do?
The light is glaring off the streets, and for the moment I
just walk with no idea where I should actually go. It feels as
if I’m in a nightmare that’s dragging on forever, looking for
the exit. It has to exist.
 ***

I wish somebody would take me away from here.

How long have I held that wish? Was it since middle
school? Since late elementary school?
What did I hate so much about “here”? The boys, for
starters. Half the world, in other words. I also hated the
social system that said I could never be happy unless I got
married to one of those boys. So I was already done with
the majority of the world.
Who the hell would like something that whispered or
screamed, “Ugly” or “Fatty” or “Die” at you when you
walked by in the halls? Look at you, you’re dirty and smelly
and covered in zits and can’t go two minutes without
thinking about sex.
I didn’t like Dad or my big brother much, either. There
was an unspoken understanding at my house that Dad had
a lover somewhere else, and my brother (who was three
years older than me, went to a famous private school, and
hadn’t been without a girlfriend since grade school) was
always looking down his nose at me and asking, “Are you
sure we’re related?”
In a world overflowing with awful, disgusting boys, the
rampant obsession with romance among middle and high
schoolers was even more exhausting. Actually, it was even
worse than that; lately, people seemed to take it for granted
that even elementary schoolers would be in love.
Magazines meant for grade schoolers ran articles like
“Hugely popular with today’s little fashionistas! Hot clothes
that will make you look slim and curvaceous, even if you’ve
got a teddy bear figure!” Girls have good figures so they’ll
be popular? What’s “a teddy bear figure” anyway? And
magazines for elementary school girls shouldn’t go calling
them “little fashionistas.” As a grade schooler, it all made
me so bitter and angry and hopeless. Even in middle
school, I refused to have anything to do with gossip about
love interests.
“I mean, who really cares what happened with the
Ashikaga clan anyway?”
“Argh, I can’t handle Japanese history, either. And also,
‘Ashikaga’? How do you get that reading out of those
characters? Sure it’s not ‘Ashiri’?”
“I think I may actually like English better.”
“Hmm. We’re Japanese, though. It’s not like we’re ever
going to America.”
“Yeah, well. I guess it is kinda pointless, huh.”
That was why my conversations with my friend Saya at
lunch were always about stuff like that. “It sure is hot
today, huh” or “It’s cold, huh” or “There’s a typhoon, huh”
or “It must be because of El Niño, huh.” Looking back, I
was so unsexy that I feel kinda bad for myself.
In middle school, when I was right in the middle of my
unpopular period, I had two close friends: Saya and
Teshigawara. We’d all gone to the same elementary school.
Saya was a plain, short, pudgy, black-haired girl like me,
and Teshigawara was just as plain, but male. In middle
school, groups were usually either all guys or all girls, but
Teshigawara stuck with us two girls as if it didn’t bother
him one bit. Maybe it was because he still thought like an
elementary schooler. He got carried away easily, but he
never said anything mean to me. As far as I was concerned,
Teshigawara wasn’t a guy.
It goes without saying that our trio was at the bottom of
the school hierarchy. Most of our class didn’t speak to us
unless they had to because of something to do with school.
The privileged cool kids actively treated us like we were
gross, and the teachers weren’t interested in us. For people
in our social stratum, their expectations were clear: “You’re
totally harmless, but if possible, don’t go anyplace where
we can see you.” Well, middle schoolers are total brats
anyway, I thought, feeling like a wiser brat than the rest.
But I still wasn’t happy with it.

“Aizawa, Aizawa, c’mere a sec, this is nuts!”

After class one day during our second year in middle
school, Teshigawara waved me over, looking excited.
“What?” I asked curtly, but I went over to the seat by the
window. Saya was there, hunched over, writing for dear life
with a mechanical pencil. She was doing one of the
numwords we’d all been crazy about lately. Numwords was
short for “numbered crossword puzzles.” Every square is
numbered, and all the squares with the same number have
to have the same letter.
“Teshi-Teshi brought this book in, and I think we’ve
almost got this one,” Saya said, gazing down at her hands
and looking serious.
Teshigawara explained with way too much enthusiasm,
“So this puzzle is called ‘Surviving Everyday Life’—it’s
twelve letters, we’ve got some p’s and e’s, and the one in
the nine squares is probably s. If we get this one, we’ll have
the whole thing solved!”
I leaned back to avoid the spit, but I was paying
attention to what he said.
Teshigawara’s name made him sound like some sort of
handsome, court noble type of guy, but not even the
smoothest diplomat could have called him good-looking. He
was tall and skinny, with weirdly long arms and legs, and
he had the thick eyebrows and long, shaggy hair of a
deserting samurai. Like the “long-arm, long-leg” monsters
I’d seen in a youkai dictionary. He was weirdly friendly with
me, and whenever he saw me, he’d yell, “Aizawa, Aizawa!”
in this loud voice. Every time I heard Saya call him Teshi-
Teshi, I’d think, What’s with this “Teshi-Teshi” business,
huh? It’s way too cute for him.
“It’s probably ‘peer pressure,’” I said, after thinking a
little.
 “Hmm?” Teshigawara said, twisting his youkai face in a
grimace.
“…Oh, you’re right! That makes the verticals ‘trick,’
‘liar,’ and ‘virtual’! ‘Peer pressure,’ that’s it! Of course
you’d get it, Shouko!”
“Whoa! Aizawa, you’re awesome! Gotta press those
piers, huh? I see!”
You have no idea what that phrase is, I thought, but
snarking back at him felt like work, and I couldn’t help
smiling at all the praise. Still, what a harsh puzzle.
“Surviving Everyday Life,” “peer pressure.”

It’s true, though. If you want to survive life, you have to

fight peer pressure. Girls should be like this; urban teen
girls should make themselves trendy; we should be
constantly in love. You had to either keep fighting the
pressure—or be on the side that exerted it.
In the spring of my third year of junior high, I made up
my mind. I was completely worn out by this endless fight
with life. Wouldn’t it be better to go over to that side?
Actually, I should do that, I resolved. By now, I understood
that nobody was ever going to show up and take me away
from “here.” I’d just have to get myself out.
“I’ve made up my mind! I’m going to be up on all the
latest fashions. I’ll change my whole life—you won’t even
recognize me!”
I made that declaration to Saya and Teshigawara on the
way home after school, as we watched the Shibuya River
trickle by from the Route 246 pedestrian bridge. They both
gaped at me as, behind them, cars roared past on the
elevated Metropolitan Expressway.
“Actually, we should do it together! Tokyo fourteen-year-
olds aren’t supposed to spend lunch and the time after
school in a corner of the classroom doing numwords and
shogi and Ouija! It’s like telling everybody, ‘Hey, we’re a
bunch of weirdos, so you’d better not come near us!’”
The other two had no idea how to react to my sudden
proposal.
“No, Shouko, don’t! We promised we’d never change,
remember?! We promised we wouldn’t grow up!” Saya said,
getting agitated and bringing up a promise I had no
recollection of ever making. (I’m pretty sure she mixed up
the lyrics of some J-pop song with reality.)
With an utterly serious expression on his youkai face,
Teshigawara put a hand on my shoulder and leaned in.
“Aizawa, if something’s troubling you, tell me about it. Just
me.” I wanted to ask him who he thought he was with a line
like that, but then behind us, a group of cool guys walked
by.
“These geeky weirdos always look like they’re having
fun,” they commented, loudly enough for us to hear.
“…Listen, even if I change, we’ll always be friends,” I
told them with tears in my eyes. For some reason, I’d said
something that sounded like a line from a drama, too.

The first thing I did was practice makeup. I bought a

magazine for popular types at the bookstore and stared at
the page about “LOVE makeup that will win you his .”
After consulting the article, I decided that of the options for
my face—“Round,” “Ethereal,” “Showy,” and “Retro”—mine
was Retro (which was a bit humiliating). I carefully chose
cosmetics from Mom’s huge collection of makeup, and after
several tear-inducing failures, I drew “plump lower eyelids”
and “casually cut those unwanted pudgy cheeks” and used
“blush for a fresh, delicate face” and added “lip lines for
glossy, plump lips.”
After that, I grabbed my allowance for a beauty salon I’d
carefully picked out online. Placing a phone call in a
trembling voice, I made a reservation for three days later,
and for that interim period, I was so tense, I couldn’t eat
much (although, thanks to that, I lost just a little weight).
The glass-walled beauty salon in Ura-Harajuku where I
got my hair cut looked like an aquarium—but when they
were done, and I saw my reflection in the mirror, I was
startled. I’d gotten a tiny bit cuter, if I did say so myself. My
too-thick black hair had been thinned out and streamlined,
my newly asymmetrical bangs brushed my eyebrows softly,
and the tips of the locks that hung down on either side of
my face curled inward just above my collarbones. Thanks to
my makeup techniques and my new hairstyle framing them,
my formerly Retro face now looked as if it belonged to a
passably modern girl. Maybe, just maybe, my attempt could
work. In that moment, I sensed something like potential.

The next step should have been a diet, but in the end, it
wasn’t necessary. After May was over, the moment I turned
fifteen, I started shedding weight. It was like a switch
hidden deep in my genes had suddenly been flipped. I grew
quickly, too. My round, stubby baby fingers grew slim and
long, my voice and skin suddenly seemed to actually belong
to a slim, pale girl, and my boobs grew heavier and heavier.
As the crowning touch, my one remaining baby tooth (and
the source of a massive complex) finally fell out and got
replaced by a permanent tooth.
Kachak. I could almost hear myself switching over—like
a toggle, or a rail switch, or a version upgrade.
On the last night of summer vacation, I dyed my hair in
the bathroom. It was a dark brown, with just a hint of
orange. I took up the skirt of my uniform, too, by myself. I’d
always been good at sewing and knitting and basic
handiwork like that, so I dragged out the sewing machine
that was gathering dust in the storage room and whipped
out a blind-stitched hem like it was nothing. Clink, clink,
clink, clink: The sound of the machine’s advancing needle
was like the noise of the vehicle that was going to take me
away from “here.”
Late at night, I put on my uniform and inspected my new
self in the full-length mirror on the stairway landing. The
girl in front of me looked like one of the models in the
magazines for popular types. I twirled in place. The
highlights in my hair glowed softly orange, while my pale
thighs beneath the short skirt were kind of sexy (if I did say
so myself) and made my heart beat faster.
“Maybe you weren’t dumped on the doorstep after all.”
My brother was looking down at me from the second
floor. I was happy I’d made him say that, but at the same
time, I didn’t like the way his eyes wouldn’t leave me. I
didn’t respond.

“Waaaaaaah, what the heck?! You’re so cute!”

“Really? You think so? It isn’t weird? I’m not, like, trying
too hard, am I?”
“Not at all! So like, um, I feel like I can be honest about
this now, but when you started messing around with
makeup, I was a little worried you were kinda pushing
yourself? But it’s perfect! You’re totally adorable! I bet
you’re gonna get scouted—don’t you dare go to Harajuku
or they’ll flag you down. Wait, maybe that means you
actually should go? Yeah, you should! Let’s go to
Harajuku!”
In September, after summer vacation was over, Saya
sincerely complimented my new look in the classroom. My
greatest fear had been the idea that she might hate me,
and I was so relieved, I could have cried. I started looking
forward to seeing how Teshigawara would react. And right
then, his youkai face and hunched shoulders walked into
the classroom.
“Good morning!” I called.
He shot me a startled glance, then slunk right on by.
Jerk. I smacked the back of his head.
 “I said good morning, Teshigawara!”
Teshigawara gave me a frightened glance, promptly
looked away, then looked back at me. His mouth fell open
so far, I practically heard it hit the ground, and his
expression turned to one of shock.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, Aizawa?!”
Wow. So he hadn’t even recognized me.
“You…” Teshigawara broke off, then pulled me out into
the hall and spoke in a whisper. “Hey, did something
happen at home? If you’ve got any problems, you can tell
me anything.”
“Is that literally the only thing you can say?!”
As I retorted with disgust, I realized that the angle from
which I was looking up at Teshigawara’s face hadn’t
changed. I’d grown, and Saya’s head was lower now. So…
had this guy gotten taller, too, then? Before I could become
conscious of anything, my face abruptly turned red, and I
hastily went back into the classroom.

After the second term started, I might as well have been

in a different world.
Everyone I passed at school, both guys and girls, looked
at me. I heard voices whispering “Who’s that?” and “She’s
so cute.” Every time it happened, Saya and Teshigawara
seemed kind of uncomfortable, but I felt like a sunny day
after endless rain.
What had changed more than anything else was the guys
—specifically how they looked at and acted around me. I
felt their eyes on my legs and hips and bust and face when
I was simply walking through the station or down the
street, or just riding the train. I never knew the men of the
world would stare so rudely at strangers.
I started occasionally encountering perverts on packed
trains, and every experience was utterly nauseating. When
I discussed it with Saya, she suggested that it was because
I looked relatively meek. I made my makeup sharper and
dyed my hair a lighter shade, and that alone was enough to
cut down the number of perverts significantly. I was exactly
the same on the inside, and yet simply changing my
appearance had changed the world’s reactions
dramatically. The idea startled and bewildered me, and I
felt both a little disillusionment and an odd sort of pleasure.
One day, when the three of us were doing a numword
after school, somebody said, “Hey, Shouko, gimme a little
of that” and snatched the strawberry juice I’d been
drinking. Startled, I looked to see where it had gone and
discovered it in the hand of a member of the cool guys
group.
He’d just called my name like we were friends or
something and stolen an indirect kiss from my straw, but
the only ones who found it strange were the three of us; the
cool kids didn’t seem to think anything of it. After that, a
group of fashion-conscious girls pulled me in, and I started
hanging out with them. Before long, Saya began using
makeup as well, and we’d walk through Harajuku after
school with the other girls, and the sketchy-looking scouts
really did flag us down. I screeched and squealed loudly
with my new friends as we walked through town, not caring
what people thought of us, and I thought, with relish, Yes,
this is it, this is what life as a Tokyo teen should be.

The world was noticeably brighter and easier to live in.

Nobody made fun of me now. The world was kind to me,
and forgiving. The only one who hadn’t changed was
Teshigawara. He kept on lecturing me—“Your skirt is too
short; take it back down!” and “I really don’t think it’s wise
of you to be that friendly with guys you don’t know”—until I
wanted to ask, What are you, my dad?!
In that sense, I realized that he was pretty reliable, and
it made my opinion of him go up. But the three of us were
gradually spending less and less time alone together. It
wasn’t long until we stopped doing numwords after school;
I wasn’t really sure whether we’d gotten tired of them and
lost interest or gotten tired of our relationship itself.
Before we knew it, the graduation ceremony was upon
us. Teshigawara ended up going to a boys’ school, and Saya
and I went on to the same high school together. We’d been
friends since elementary school, but the relationship ended
kind of vaguely, like the air gradually leaking out of a
balloon.

High school life was solid fun right from the start.
The address book on my cell phone was bursting with
new names, both guys’ and girls’, and once a week I’d stay
over at a friend’s house or goof around all night long at
twenty-four-hour hamburger shops or someplace similar.
Saya and I had joined the wind ensemble, but I was so busy
having fun that I turned into a ghost member right away.
I also fell in love.
That said, it wasn’t with a boy; I fell for the young female
classics teacher. I don’t think it was about wanting to get
married, or wanting to date her, or wanting to touch her
and have her touch me. I had almost no experience with
romance, though, and there didn’t seem to be anything else
to call these feelings.
Her first class, I felt like a coastal fisherman spotting his
first blue whale on a rare deep-sea fishing trip: Whoa,
lookit that, there’s a natural beauty up on that thar
platform! …Is that too weird a metaphor? Anyway, what I’m
getting at is that I was well versed enough in the artificial,
cosmetic variety of beauty that I was a bit of an authority. I
could tell right away that her light makeup wasn’t there to
enhance anything, but to mute it. She’d been gorgeous
from the time she was a little girl. I couldn’t even imagine a
life where you needed to tone your beauty down. Her voice
was sweet and gentle, and I concentrated like crazy in her
class so I wouldn’t miss hearing a single breath.
I wanted to hear her voice call my name, “Aizawa,” and I
put an abnormal amount of effort into studying just for
classics, because I wanted to be able to give a flawless
answer when she did call on me. The teacher was fair to
everybody, and she was a very good person. Even if I’d still
had my middle-school looks, I doubt she would have treated
me any differently. For some reason, I was sure of that.
Her name was Ms. Yukari Yukino.
“Oh, Ms. Yukino! Are you headed home now?”
Whenever I spotted Ms. Yukino after school, I’d run up to
her at full speed. I didn’t even hide the fact that my tail was
wagging. I thought, time and time again, how great it
would be if Ms. Yukino were my homeroom teacher instead
of burly Mr. Itou. (Not that I hated him, though—he was
one of the few men who didn’t have that look in their eyes.)
“Oh, Aizawa. No, I still have some work to do in the staff
room.”
Oh my God, oh my God! She said my name!
“I’ll wait until you’re done, then. Let’s go home together,
Ms. Yukino.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll be here for a while.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
“You’d better not.”
“Tell me your e-mail address, then.”
“Where’s this coming from?” Ms. Yukino asked, smiling
and admonishing me gently. “I’m just a teacher. You’ve only
just started high school, Aizawa. You should go make
friends your own age first.”
Her tone was kind, but Ms. Yukino just would not let her
guard down. That’s not true. I’ve already got contact info
for a bunch of the male teachers, and college guys and
businessmen are always chatting me up at parties. But the
one I really want to get to know better is you, Ms. Yukino.—
Still, that’s not the kind of thing you can say aloud. All I
could do was keep pining for her.

I’d been at the ticket gate for three hours already, since
ten in the morning, and three guys had spoken to me. I
knew from experience that there would have been a whole
lot more at Shibuya or Harajuku or Shinjuku, but this was
Sendagaya. The place was full of uptight athletic types, and
almost nobody gave me the once-over. So this is where she
lives, I thought. It’s relaxed and spread out—it does feel a
little like her. Should’ve guessed.
I’d dressed up a little bit, in a white knit dress and a
black Chesterfield coat, and I was leaning against a pillar in
front of the ticket gate. Right across the street, the shell-
like silver roof of the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium was
glaring in the autumn sunlight.
“Say, are you waiting for somebody?”
Here comes number four. I didn’t exactly hate the
attention—I’d never go with them, but I did feel my value
was being recognized. This guy was a slender, more
effeminate type in too-fancy clothes.
“Yep. My boyfriend,” I responded, keeping my face
blank.
“But you’ve been all by yourself for ages,” he insisted—
just as I heard a sweet, familiar voice from elsewhere.
“…Aizawa? Oh, it is you. What’s one of my students
doing here? Oh—are you with a friend?”
“Mi—M-Ms. Yukino!”
Ms. Yukino was right in front of me, dressed a little more
casually than usual in a beige tie-waist coat. My stalking
gambit had paid off—I’d finally met the person I’d been
waiting for all this time, and yet I just felt embarrassed.
When he realized Ms. Yukino was my teacher, the guy
made a silent exit.
“He was a total stranger!”
“Hmm. Were you waiting for someone?”
 “No, um, I—Sho-sho-shogi!”
“Shogi?”
“Um, I came to pay my respects to the god of shogi!” I
said the first thing that popped into my head, remembering
the statue of a shogi pawn on the station platform.
Ms. Yukino’s eyes softened with understanding.
“Yes, we do have that shrine around here, don’t we? I
didn’t know you played shogi, Aizawa. That’s wonderful.”
The smile she gave me then would’ve been enough to
melt anyone into a puddle of goo. Aaaaaaah! If anyone’s
wonderful here, it’s you!
The rest of that day only got better from there. I said I’d
finished my visit to the shrine (a lie, of course), and that I
was thinking of going to the park for a little while.
“I was just thinking of doing a little reading in the park
myself,” said Ms. Yukino, and so we went together. My
teacher even paid my ¥200 entry fee (“Just this once, all
right?”). I’d brought a box lunch, the product of skills
cultivated during my years as an ugly duckling, and we
split it between us. We gossiped about school, I told her
things about my family situation that would get me
sympathy points, and my teacher told me about the books
she liked and her own experiences in high school.
In no time at all, the autumn sun began to go down. We
left once we heard the announcement warning us the park
was about to close, and Ms. Yukino walked me to my bus
stop. When we turned a corner in a cozy mixed
neighborhood of houses and low buildings, the evening sun
flared straight through the gap between two buildings,
illuminating us like a spotlight. When I looked over my
shoulder, our shadows stretched over the asphalt forever,
sharp and clear. Ms. Yukino was glowing in a transparent
halo of orange light.
I want to glow like her someday, I prayed. Let me
become like her. And let this happiness last forever. But it
didn’t matter what I wanted; the sun suddenly vanished
behind the buildings, shrouding us in cold ultramarine.
I had wanted to tell her something, no matter what. It
was why I’d secretly found out which train station she used
and had ambushed her there on the morning of one of her
days off…but I hadn’t been able to put the “something” into
words.

And so it went. My first year of high school was fun and

happy, but I had the ticklish, tantalizing sense that there
was something missing, and I just couldn’t seem to
remember the name of that particular spice.
Saya and I were in different classes, so by then, I had
almost no opportunity to see her anymore. When we ran
into each other in the corridors or at the station, we’d stop
to chat. We now had practically nothing in common to talk
about, but the spark did return a bit when we traded
rumors about Teshigawara. He’d joined the cheer squad at
his boys’ school, and he’d started growing a beard, and for
some reason, he’d dyed his hair blond.
Remembering Teshigawara was strangely depressing,
though, and I hated feeling that way. “It’s been a long
time,” I said brightly. “Why don’t we get together and go
somewhere fun, just the three of us? You, me, and
Teshigawara.”
“Good idea, he’ll love it. I bet he’ll start crying.”
“No, I bet he’ll try to be all cool about it.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Yeah, I’ll text you!”
But in the end, I never sent that text. Because I met
Makino.
Because this time, as fate would have it, I fell in love
with a boy.

I wish somebody would take me away from here.

I’d forgotten that feeling for a long time, but the moment
I saw Makino on the subway, I remembered it. Maybe he’s
the person I’ve been waiting for, all this time.
It was April, and I’d just begun my second year of high
school. On a crowded Ginza Line subway on the way home
from school, I saw Makino leaning against a door, reading a
paperback. I was standing by myself, near a door on the
same side as his, but facing him across a row of seats. At
school, he was always surrounded by gorgeous guys and
girls, but now he was alone. It was surprising, but then
again, I was alone, too.
Even though he was almost twenty feet away, I thought I
could see sadness in his long eyelashes as they slanted
down toward the words in his book. That was all, but it was
enough to make me fall for him, head over heels.
Makino was famous at school. He was tall and handsome
and captain of the basketball club; he was a good student,
the teachers trusted him, and everyone around him was
just as charismatic. I’d seen him walking alone with a girl
from time to time, so when I decided to tell him how I felt, I
expected to get shot down.
“You said your name was Shouko?” he said, his voice
somewhat cool. He used my name as if we’d always been
close. “I tend to be kinda selfish with the girl I go out with.
You wouldn’t mind?”
I couldn’t believe that answer. Yes, do! Be selfish with
me, only me! I couldn’t say it out loud. With the gravity of
one who’s just discovered she has an incurable illness, I
nodded, fighting back tears.

During the spring of my second year of high school, I

was walking on air. For the first time in my life, I had a
boyfriend, and he was the star of the school. This was the
“something” I’d been missing.
Plus, starting in April, I finally got the homeroom teacher
I’d been longing for: Ms. Yukino. It was like getting the Bon
festival and New Year’s at the same time, or Christmas and
Halloween, or a wedding and the celebration of a birth. I
don’t even really know, but it was like all of life’s blessings
had come showering down on me all at once. I was giddy.
Under the circumstances, it would have been impossible
not to be. So when Makino was selfish, as he’d warned
right at first he would be (and looking back, that was
definitely a warning), it only made me happier.
“Huh? Shouko, did you curl your hair?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. I’m not used to doing it yet, so it isn’t very
good…,” I replied, looking down.
“It looks good on you,” he said, and he gently set his big
hand on my head. That alone made my cheeks so hot, they
felt like they were on fire.
“Aww, look, Shouko’s bright red!”
“Makino, you lucky bastard. I want a girlfriend like that,
too.”
His friends all teased him. We’d fallen into the habit of
walking back to the station together, after I waited for his
club’s practice to finish.
“Lay off. There’s nobody at our school who’s purer than
Shouko.” Makino laughed. After a lively exchange (“Get a
load of this guy” and “Ugh, at least pay me to listen to you
gushing about your girlfriend”), his friends went home on a
different line. He and I boarded the train together.
It wasn’t even a ten-minute ride to my station, but
Makino said he wanted to spend as much time with me as
he possibly could, so I stayed with him the extra twenty
minutes until his station. Once it was just the two of us,
he’d change a little. At first, it wasn’t much, but little by
little, he became a completely different person.
“Shouko, your hair…,” he began, running his fingers
through it and then tugging it, just a little rough. His voice
was as gentle as it had been. Worried that he would wreck
my hair after I’d put so much effort into it, I looked up at
him. “You weren’t kidding when you said you weren’t used
to this. It’s terrible. Besides, I’d like to see you with
brighter hair. I bet it’d look better on you.”
Okay, I thought. On the way back home, I went right to a
drugstore and looked for hair dye. I decided I’d go all out
and grabbed a pink type, then dyed my hair that night. The
next day at school, everybody complimented me on my new
color. “How cute!” they said. “You look all mature.”
But I couldn’t relax until I was alone with Makino. When
his friends weren’t around anymore, he grabbed my hair
and tore his fingers through it so hard, I worried it would
come out. He was still wearing that tranquil smile. Ow, ow,
ow! I love you, I love you, I love you, my hair screamed.
“Ha-ha! Man, now it looks ridiculous. You’re not in a
gang, you know. Black hair is better on you after all.”
And so that night I re-dyed my hair black. Because of all
the treatments in such a short time, my hair turned coarse
and lost all its luster. But Makino’s other face was for me
and me alone, and that made me happy. In my own mind, I
was lucky. All I could think about was what I could do to
please him.
“You’re a virgin, right, Shouko?”
After school, the moment the two of us were alone
together in a third-year classroom, Makino brought up the
topic out of nowhere. His mood was still exactly the same
as a minute before, when he’d been talking with his friends
about a cell phone game.
“Huh? Oh, ohhh, um…”
I wasn’t sure whether to take it as a joke or not. Makino
wanted something from me, and I couldn’t afford to guess
wrong. The fluorescent lights weren’t on; outside, the dirt
of the athletic field acted like a giant reflector and filled the
classroom with indirect orange light. I could hear the after-
school chatter in the halls beyond the door, like the faint
noise from somebody else’s headphones. I always thought
this time of day was beautiful—it was the classic school
experience.
 “Well?”
In the light of the reflector, Makino’s well-formed
features were unbelievably beautiful, like a magazine
model’s. The hair at the nape of his neck shone softly. I had
to answer him.
“Umm… Y-yes, I’m—Well, I’ve been abstinent!”
As I answered, I was so hideously embarrassed that I felt
dizzy.
“Ha-ha, ‘abstinent,’ huh? Well, keep it that way until my
birthday. I don’t even want to touch a girl who’s been with
some other guy.”
As he said that, he put a hand against my hot cheek. His
lips came nearer. A kiss! I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting
for the sensation of his lips on mine. And waited. And
waited. I heard a laugh.
“You look like a dog with your eyes squeezed shut like
that, Shouko.”
I was so embarrassed, I almost burst into tears. Ohh, I’d
have to practice being kissed, too. Would I be able to hang
on to my sanity until Makino’s birthday next month?
In the orange light, his eyes were cool. Pain prickled
across my skin, and the only word I had for that feeling was
happiness.
“Sorry ’bout the wait! Let’s head home.” One of his
friends poked his head into the classroom.
“Let’s go, Shouko,” Makino said gently.
My armpits were soaked with sweat, and it embarrassed
me so much, I wanted to run away… But I couldn’t escape,
not ever.

The summer was sweltering.

For the month up until Makino’s birthday, I was
embarrassed to sweat or secrete anything that smelled in
front of him, so I desperately cut down on my water intake
until I collapsed from dehydration. Then I realized he might
be disappointed if I was too thin, so I’d hastily go to beef
bowl places in the middle of the night—but what if the
cheap meat created BO? So I’d go to the bathroom and
throw it up. I was like a blindfolded small animal, scurrying
this way and that. When I managed to lose my virginity
without incident, I was so relieved. To be honest, I was
scared that Makino would dump me once I wasn’t a virgin
anymore, but he did nothing of the sort. He was as kind to
me as ever.

The day it happened was sweltering, too, I think.

After all, the unbearable heat didn’t let up for a single
day that summer. But when I try to remember that day, I
realize all the physical sensations are gone from my
memory—things like sweat and temperature and humidity.
From that day on, I think I lost sight of what I was feeling
at all.

It was after school, right before summer vacation.

I’d just finished tallying up the class handouts, as Ms.
Yukino had asked me to do, and I was on my way to the
Japanese-language prep room. It felt like I was going to
meet a friend after a long time apart. Yaaaay, I’m going to
go talk to Ms. Yukino! Ever since Makino and his group had
quit their club in June, I’d been so busy with him in one
way and another that I hadn’t had time to have much fun
with other people.
I climbed the stairs and turned into the corridor, but just
as I was about to knock on the prep room door, I stopped. I
could hear something that sounded like arguing inside. As I
was wondering, What should I do? Should I come back
later? I heard angry shouting.
“That’s enough!”
The voice belonged to Ms. Yukino. Footsteps approached
from beyond the door, and I ducked around the corner of
the stairwell.
The uniformed boy who left the room was Makino. He
was wearing the slightly cruel smile he sometimes showed
me when we were alone, and he ambled off toward the
third-year classrooms in his usual calm way, as if nothing
had happened.
I didn’t understand what had happened, and I think I
stood there for a while, dazed, hugging the papers to my
chest. I was sure I needed to know about whatever it was,
though—or maybe it was something I couldn’t afford to
know. Quietly as I could, I made my way toward Makino’s
classroom. And then I heard several people roaring with
laughter.
“Holy shit, Makino, are you serious? You actually took a
shot at Yuki?”
“What a dumbass! You’ve got balls, man. There’s no way
she’d say yes!”
“I’m not so sure,” I heard Makino say, as evenly as ever.
“Women like her will give in if you push for long enough. I
can see it in her face. She needs a man.”
I didn’t really grasp what they were talking about. I
mean, of course I knew what the words meant, but
everything in me was rejecting them.
That day, Makino went home by himself, without saying
anything to me. He hadn’t done that since we’d started
going out. He called my phone once, but I didn’t answer.
On the way home, and after I got inside, and in the bath,
the possibilities kept circling around and around in my
head. Maybe every single word I’d heard that day was a
delusion; maybe I’d simply heard wrong. I thought so long
and hard that I gave myself a killer headache. I desperately
wanted to text Makino. I prayed frantically that he’d call or
text me again. He could be as selfish as he wanted; I just
wanted him to tell me what to do, what to be.
But nothing came. I’d known it wouldn’t. He’d called me
once, so now it was my turn. He would never call me twice
in a row; it was an unbreakable rule. We hadn’t talked it
over and decided on it, but I knew in my bones.

In homeroom the next morning, Ms. Yukino was no

different from usual. She didn’t strike me as desperate for a
man. I must have just misunderstood what I’d heard the
day before. During lunch, I took her the worksheets I
hadn’t been able to give her then.
“Thank you, Aizawa,” she said, kind as ever. “What
happened yesterday? I waited for you in the prep room for
a while.”
“Oh, umm, something suddenly came up. I’m sorry,” I
told her.
There, you see? I’m the one who screwed up. This time, I
was sure of it. After class, I felt good about going to
Makino’s classroom.
“Makino, do you like Ms. Yukino?”
My mind should have been at ease; I’d been so confident
it was just a misunderstanding. But when I stood facing
him, that question was the first thing out of my mouth. It
caught me off guard.
“Why would you think that?” he asked me, completely
mystified, and I could tell I’d just messed up.
“Um, yesterday, I was on my way to the Japanese-
language prep room, and…”
“Oh, you heard that?” he asked, like it was nothing. He
hardly reacted at all. “I don’t have feelings for her or
anything. It’s just that Yukino makes you curious, you
know? She’s a total mystery. I haven’t done anything yet,
but I bet I’ll be able to before too long. They say women her
age are the sluttiest.”
“…Really?”
“Yes, really. Haven’t you heard that? Geez, you need to
loosen up, Shouko.”
 Oh, I guess I do, I thought.
“I guess so,” I murmured. Maybe I was the one in the
wrong. The thought came more and more easily to me as I
listened to Makino. After all, he didn’t sound the least bit
guilty.
After that day, Makino stopped responding to my texts
and calls completely. I could only see him if I went to meet
him after class. Sometimes we walked back to the station
with his friends, too, but it seemed he was avoiding being
alone with me. The only exception was sex. He’d hold me at
his house when his parents were out, or when I could afford
to pay for a hotel, and that was it.
You need to loosen up, Shouko. I was terrified of hearing
him say that to me again, so I tried to do everything, no
matter what it was. The more I tried, though, the more I’d
freeze until I couldn’t even get wet. Before long, Makino
wouldn’t sleep with me anymore.

Summer vacation of my second year of high school was

hell.
Makino never responded to me at all. I missed him, so I
went to his neighborhood over and over. Even when he
spotted me, he just ignored me. It was like I was invisible
to him. He was so unaffected by my presence, I started to
worry that maybe I really wasn’t there. Once, just once, he
spoke to me in front of his house. “Shouko, come here,” he
said, as kind as he’d ever been.
Oh, I thought, yeah, it really was all in my head. I was so
relieved, I could have cried. I might have, in fact.
But Makino took me to a police box. When I heard him
tell the officer he was there to report a stalker, I got scared
and ran away.

I needed a reason.
What was I doing wrong? What had I done wrong? How
could I get him to forgive me? Could I earn his forgiveness?
It’s Ms. Yukino’s fault.
I was eating a convenience store rice ball in our empty
living room when it hit me. Why hadn’t I seen it before?
Ms. Yukino had stolen Makino’s affections from me.
As soon as I put the pieces together, I almost melted with
relief. I had the answer. I just had to hate Ms. Yukino with
the same intensity as my love for Makino.
It’s so easy.
The thought made me happier than I’d been in a long
time.

***

Years later, I would know the truth.

Makino had never thought anything of me at all, and Ms.
Yukino was just a kindhearted victim. If today I met
Masashi Makino and the Shouko Aizawa I was then, I’m
sure I could handle it better. I could draw out what it was
they really wanted in a more appropriate way, and show
them how to get there. I just didn’t know at the time.
…It’s a lovely thought, isn’t it? I’m sure it would be a
relief—both for me and for anybody who might be listening
to my story—if I did have that older, wiser perspective.
Unfortunately, though, this story isn’t over and done with.
It’s still happening.
I already know Makino is a self-centered child, that I’m
no different, and that Ms. Yukino isn’t responsible for any
of this in any way.
“I loved him, I loved him, I loved him, and you—!”
I still have dreams where I’m screaming and crying and
hitting Ms. Yukino, again and again.

***
I discovered I had a power that startled even me.
I could almost see the traffic signs floating before my
eyes, showing me with incredible clarity what I needed to
do to effectively ruin Ms. Yukino. I was a little impressed. I
never knew I could do this.
The first thing I did was be tardy for Ms. Yukino’s
classes. I’d march in through the door at the front of the
classroom thirty minutes after the bell.
“You’re late, Aizawa. What’s wrong?” the teacher would
ask me, but I wouldn’t answer. Instead, I’d glare at her.
Then, after a while, I’d just say, “Ask your conscience.
You know why” and sit down.
At first, that was all I did, but it was enough for my
classmates to sense that there’d been an incident. The
whole mood in the classroom changed.
“Hey, Shouko, did something happen with Ms. Yukino?”
my friends would ask me during break, but I wouldn’t give
a straight answer.
“Mm, sorry, it’s kinda personal.” I made sure not to look
them in the eye, and that was all it took to make them
seriously worry. After summer vacation, I’d returned to
school haggard and skinny, and besides, I’d never been one
for mean-spirited gossip. So everyone just assumed that I’d
been victimized somehow.
Of course, Ms. Yukino worried about me, too, and she
tried to talk to me again and again. I just said “I’m sorry”
and avoided saying anything specific.
I kept it up, carefully and tenaciously, for about three
months. Then, the girls I was close to began avoiding Ms.
Yukino, too. The students trusted her deeply, but the fact
that I wouldn’t talk about whatever it was convinced them
that she was part of the problem.
Before long, rumors began spreading about something
sketchy between Ms. Yukino and Makino. I knew right away
that either Makino was still chasing her around, or he’d
started the rumors himself out of spite. There had been
other, similar rumors before, but they were so dumb, they
always fizzled out promptly (usually because “There’s no
way Yuki would give that guy the time of day”). This time,
though, my silence gave the rumor a certain air of
credibility.
Makino’s counting on me for help! I told myself.
By then, I wasn’t even able to talk to him anymore, but
the rumor seemed like a gift from him to me. He was telling
me we should screw over Ms. Yukino together. Makino and
I had to pull this off; I doubled down on my resolution.
“Shouko, did something happen between Makino and
Ms. Yukino?” The next time my friends asked, I just teared
up. I didn’t even have to act; simply hearing about the
whole thing was enough.

“Shouko, are you having a good time at school?”

When my new mom asked me during dinner, I discovered
a new angle of attack.
“Hmm… Well, we’re having some trouble in my classics
class. Everyone gets so loud, we can’t really have proper
lessons. Maybe they’re just messing with the teacher
’cause she’s young, but I’ve got entrance exams next year,
you know.”
As we sat around the dinner table, I did my best to get
some of the super-expensive-looking meat into my stomach
as I explained. This beautiful stranger and I were only
about ten years apart. It was like my old mom had been
made young again.
Her face lit up at my story, as if she’d finally discovered
something she could do for her daughter.
It really was a piece of cake.
Through a complicated series of channels, Mom
managed to find her way to the rumor about the
relationship between her daughter’s former boyfriend and
the problematic classics teacher. By then, Ms. Yukino’s
classics lessons for my class had gotten so out of hand that
they didn’t really function as education. Several
hardworking students had complained to the staff that they
weren’t able to study for tests in Ms. Yukino’s class, and at
almost the exact same time, some parents submitted a
formal complaint to the city’s board of education.

Ms. Yukino was nothing but faithful and good, and she
was completely helpless in all this. I had power, and she
didn’t. Simple, cruel facts.
Before long, Makino graduated, and I lost both my
motivation and my reason for bullying Ms. Yukino. But the
situation was out of my hands now; it didn’t need my help
to keep spinning. Like when you stuff the cord of your
headphones into your pocket, and the next thing you know,
it’s all tangled up in impossible knots.
Several students kept harassing Ms. Yukino, and she got
sicker and sicker. My idol was now just a depressed,
unhealthy middle-aged woman. I found a new boyfriend
and dumped him, then got another one and dumped him,
and so on and so forth.
Then, one evening during the rainy season, Mom was
very pleased to announce that my teacher had decided to
leave her position.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I silently got up from the
dinner table, went to the bathroom, stuck my finger down
my throat, and threw up everything that woman had made
for me. Tears started falling from my eyes. Without telling a
single lie, I’d run Ms. Yukino out of the school.

In June of my third year of high school, I ran into

Teshigawara by accident.
A sudden evening shower had driven me under the eaves
of Shibuya Station. The air was full of steam, so humid I
could almost imagine tiny fish about the size of killifishes
swimming in it. Someone else had taken shelter a moment
after me, and when I looked to the side, there he was.
“…Hmm? Oh, ohhhhhhhhhhhhh! Aizawa, is that you?!”
Teshigawara shouted at me, completely soaked.
“Teshigawara…,” I murmured, surprised.
He hadn’t dyed his hair, and he didn’t have a beard. He
was as weird and uncool as I remembered, only taller, and
his blazer looked terrible. His mouth was wide open in a
grin, and he was so overly enthusiastic, I wondered if he
was going to jump on me and hug me.
“Aizawaaaaaaaa! Ah, geez, it’s been forever! Two years?!
How’ve you been, huh?! Aw, man, you’re wearing even
more makeup than before!”
The fact that Teshigawara was right there didn’t seem
real to me somehow, and I couldn’t even duck away from
his spit. I just stood there, dazed, as if I were in a dream.
“Hmm? Why the long face? Did something happen at
home? Or at school? If something’s troubling you, you can
always talk to me.”
I could feel something inside me about to break down. If
I suddenly heard what I’d wanted to hear for so long, right
now, from Teshigawara, I’d cave. Thanks to the rain, my
brightly colored bra was probably showing through my
uniform blouse. It was humiliating.
I desperately fought back the impulse to cling to
Teshigawara, blinked away any tears, and snapped. “Don’t
talk to me, creep. Ugh, this is embarrassing.”
Without looking at him, I fled through the ticket gate, up
the stairs, and into the nearest train, wherever it was
going. If I’d talked to Teshigawara any more, I would have
done the same thing to him that Makino had done to me.
And I was more afraid of that than anything.

***
Summer vacation of my last year of high school ended, and
the second term began.
On that day, I didn’t leave for school until afternoon. For
no particular reason, I boarded the Yamanote Line instead
of the usual Ginza Line and went to school the long way.
The sun was almost blinding—when someone says
midsummer day, this is exactly the kind of image that
comes to mind. I sat in one of the seats, gazing absently at
the puddles of sunlight around the train car. The puddles
moved slowly, in sync with the curves of the rails, soaking
each person by turns. The moment the light reached my
feet, I suddenly remembered my first day of high school.
That day, I’d ridden the Yamanote Line so that Saya and I
could go to school together. I remembered how proud I’d
felt in my new uniform, and the cheerful conversation we’d
had. It could’ve been yesterday.
What’s high school gonna be like? You think everyone’s
gonna be so much more mature? Will the teachers be
mean? I hope the older kids are nice. I wonder if I’ll meet
somebody I like. I hope I find a nice boyfriend.

I’ve never seen that first-year boy before, but as soon as he

comes into the classroom, I know.
In fact, I knew even before I saw him, the moment I
heard his faint footsteps in the corridor. Out of nowhere, I
was reminded of that feeling from long, long ago. I wish
somebody would take me away from here.
I was killing time in the classroom after school with a
few of my friends, bitching about our boyfriends and
girlfriends and other pointless crap. The bright-red sunset
was the kind that comes after the end of a typhoon, and
even now that it’s below the horizon, the dark-red
afterglow is still hanging in the classroom.
When that boy sees us, he pushes the desks out of the
way to walk right up to me. His expression is dead serious,
and his eyes are resolute. He’s here for justice.
Finally, I think. I want to scream at this quiet-looking
boy, What the hell took you so long?! He’s here, but what’s
the point now?
“What’s up, freshmeat?” one of my guy friends asks
suspiciously.
The boy ignores him. “Aizawa-senpai…?” he says,
walking over in front of me.
“Who’re you?” I respond. Yes, I’m the one you want, I tell
him silently.
The boy sucks in a deep breath, then quietly says, “I
hear Ms. Yukino is quitting.”
“Huh?”
I’m furious inside. This guy knows nothing. We lost our
chance to stop this a long time ago.
“Who cares about that slutty old hag?”
The moment the words are out of my mouth, he slaps me
across the face.
This is what I deserve.
 Yo no naka no / kurushiki mono ni / arikerashi / koi ni
tahezute / shinubeki omoheba
(Man’yoshu volume 4:738) Translation: It seems as though /
existence in this world / is pain: / I feel I may die / from the
agony of love Context: One of the two poems Sakanoue no
Ooiratsume sent to Ootomo no Yakamochi. It openly
expresses the torment her love is causing her.
 CHAPTER EIGHT

Even Should the Rain Never Fall, a Room Underwater

—Takao Akizuki
The moment his hand connects with the girl’s cheek, it
leaves a nasty feeling on his palm. It’s the unsettling
aftertaste of violence, like sticky, dirty water seeping all the
way into his bones. It’s still not enough, though, Takao
Akizuki thinks. His heart is pumping out hatred as if it’s
blood.
“What the hell, man?!”
He hears a voice beside him, and a guy grabs the
offending arm. Takao shakes him off but doesn’t even
glance his way, glaring at the girl instead.
A third-year girl named Aizawa. This girl did that to her.
Abruptly, he registers someone looming in front of him,
then bearing down on him, and the next moment, a heavy
shock sends him crashing into a desk. The desk falls over
right by his ear with a loud bang, and when he opens his
eyes, the floor is in front of his face. It takes a moment for
the heat on the inside of his lip to become burning pain.
What? How many of them are in here?
His anger clouded his vision so much, he didn’t even see
them. The thick taste of blood is flooding his mouth. When
Takao lifts his head, a big guy in a T-shirt is looking down at
him with a dull expression in his eyes.
Before terror and regret can well up too strongly, Takao
swallows them down, along with a loogie of blood. Then,
keeping his stance low, he charges the big guy’s stomach.
It’s like body-slamming a heavy log, and right afterward, a
hard elbow sinks into his back. He crumples to the floor
again and takes two kicks in the gut this time.
He curls up as a stabbing pain spreads through his
insides, but somebody grabs his shirt and yanks him to his
feet. There’s a thick chest inches in front of his face. A guy
like a pillar of iron has Takao by the scruff of the neck.
“Dammit!”
 Screaming, Takao shoves a fist at his face, but the guy
blocks it easily, one-handed. He backhands Takao across
the face, then hits him on the chin on the way back. The
guy is barely trying, but Takao can feel his jaw moving in
ways it shouldn’t. As soon as he feels the sole of a shoe
against his stomach, he’s kicked across the room. Takao’s
back hits the lockers with a metallic crash so loud, he
wonders if he’s broken them as his lungs expel a hot mass
of air.
What the—? It hurts like hell.
“What’s your problem? Whaddaya think you’re doing to
Shouko?” Mixed into the ringing in his ears, he hears the
big guy’s contemptuous voice above him.
“Shouko, you don’t know this kid, right?” the girl next to
Aizawa asks dubiously.
Aizawa doesn’t say anything.
What’s wrong with me? I’m so weak. The thought makes
Takao want to burst into tears, but he manages to sit up.
In front of him, several third-year girls and guys are
glaring at him with all the hate they can muster. They’re all
smirking, too.
“He’s one of those guys, right? Another one of Yukino’s
victims.”
“Seriously? You fell for that old bitch, too?”
“Bet she let him go a round.”
“Oh yeah, Yuki’s a total nympho. God, aren’t you grossed
out? Do you know how old she is?”
“I feel kinda sorry for him. He’s a victim here.”
“You might have a chance now. She ain’t a teacher no
more.”
Aizawa abruptly raises her head and looks at Takao, and
her blank expression becomes a twisted smile.
“You’d better thank me, kid. I got her out of here for
you.”
And Takao is blazing with anger right down to his
fingertips. With a bellow, he takes a swing at Aizawa, but
the big guy blocks his way and hits him again. As the group
punches and kicks him, he thinks, Why?
Why, why, why?
She,
The rain-woman,
Ms. Yukino,
Why didn’t she tell me anything—?

***

She had my heart in her hands, Takao thinks. The moment I

touched her cool foot in that arbor, with the rain and light
around us, I was hopelessly captivated.
That day, he’d touched her feet, changed their shapes
into numbers, traced their outlines with his pencil. As he
did, it seemed as if the paper he’d traced them onto had
acquired her fragrance, as if he’d caught hold of a
fragment of her he’d never expected to find, and that alone
had sent heat through every part of him.
But then the rain had stopped after that day, as if to
make him pay for that gift. The rainy season was over. Then
summer vacation had arrived, and Takao had lost all his
excuses for going to the arbor.
One day in early August, his older brother had left their
apartment for good. Takao helped him move, starting first
thing in the morning. Their mother had run away two
months earlier (although she did come home once a week
or so to either fix dinner or make Takao fix it, depending on
how she was feeling), so for all intents and purposes, he’d
started living on his own. He didn’t know what to do with
the empty half of the traditional room that he’d shared with
his brother, and he ate and slept alone in a deserted
apartment.
Before he knew it, the blank spaces in the rooms and in
between his thoughts had been filled with her. Being alone
meant knowing that she wasn’t here. It was a constant
awareness that she was somewhere else, spending time
doing things he didn’t know about.
For the first time, Takao learned the true meaning of
loneliness. Not being able to see her was painful, nearly
physically so. I’m sitting here like this, and at this very
moment she could be with someone I don’t know. Maybe
he’s listening to her sweet, unsteady voice, and enchanted
by her hair ringed by a halo of light, and inhaling her scent
that seems to go straight to your heart, and maybe—gently
touching her pale-pink toenails.
Before he went to sleep, he prayed for rain, and he was
praying for it again before he woke. But no rain fell. I’ve
been so stubborn and selfish about praying for rain that the
gods decided to never let it rain again, out of spite. Before
he knew it, he was seriously believing it, and he was
genuinely scared for the future if this kept up.
There was no meaning in this pain; he was only bearing
it for his own sake. He still had enough of his wits about
him to know that. Yes, I’m in love. But if it makes me weak,
I’ll never measure up to the adults around her… So I won’t
let it make me weak; I’ll make these feelings give me
strength. Takao had nearly worn his brain out considering
the problem, but he finally formed a resolution. He’d kill
the part of his heart complaining that it hurt too much.
Then he’d gauge what he could do, how he could reach her,
and then he’d get to work.
And so during summer vacation, he devoted as much
time as possible to his part-time job. The rain he’d been
longing for finally fell, but even on that day, he was at the
restaurant in the morning, shaking free of the hold it had
on him. Now that Xiao Feng had left the Chinese
restaurant, there was plenty of work to be done. He
focused on his tasks, thinking only, How would Shao Hon
do this? He put 70 percent of the money he earned in the
bank, saving up to pay for school after he graduated. He
was planning to go to a shoe trade school. The remaining
30 percent went into his shoemaking materials fund.
“I can’t walk very well anymore,” she had said that day.
…So I’m going to make her shoes that will help her want
to walk a lot. This may be the one thing I can do to reach
her, Takao would tell himself as he worked late into the
night after work was done for the day, alone in the
apartment.
With the help of the outlines of her feet on that piece of
paper, the soft shapes whose sensation still lingered on his
hands, he carved wooden lasts and put together a mass of
putty, creating molds for the shoes. He drew page after
page of shoe designs in his notebook and, after racking his
brain, narrowed them down to one. He made a paper
pattern. He put it over leather, tracing the outlines with a
silver pen. After several mistakes, he cut the shapes out
with a leather knife. Assembling the cut pieces of leather
like a puzzle, he stitched them together in three
dimensions. All the sounds of his work faded into the empty
apartment. Like a dry cloth soaking up water, the night air
softly held all his sounds.
This deserted apartment is so quiet—but this loneliness
is going to make me an adult. Takao’s thoughts were almost
a prayer.

Summer vacation wasn’t long enough to make shoes

while working part-time. August was over in a flash, and all
he had to show for it was less than ¥150,000 in savings, a
mountain of ruined leather, and cuts on his hands. He
hadn’t even been able to sew the uppers to his satisfaction.
At this rate, he had no idea when he’d manage to finish the
shoes.
But still, the start of another semester buoyed Takao’s
feelings. Now, if it rained, he’d be able to go and meet her
openly again. I told her I only skip on rainy mornings. What
should we talk about, next time we meet? Should I tell her
I’ve almost memorized it? I bet she’ll be surprised. “Huh?”
she’ll ask. “Memorized what?” “The book you gave me,” I’ll
tell her, and maybe I’ll actually recite some of it. That’ll
give her a shock. Maybe it’ll make her happy, too.
With all these thoughts in his head, Takao’s heart was
light as he went to school on the first day of the second
term.

So when he passed her in front of the staff room during

the lunch recess, Takao didn’t realize who she was. Several
seconds had passed before he thought, Huh?
“Ms. Yukino!”
Even before Takao turned around, Hiromi Satou, his
companion, called her name and ran over to her. He turned
slowly, following Satou’s back with his eyes, and there she
was, standing next to his homeroom teacher, Mr. Itou.
…Ms. Yukino?
As he stood there, stunned and bewildered, students
were flocking to her. Every one of them was treating her as
a teacher.
“I’m sorry, guys.”
The moment he heard her voice, a shudder ran through
him. I know that sweet, trembling voice. Why is she here, at
school? Takao was confused.
“I’ll be at school until after fifth period, so come talk to
me later. I’ll have time then.”
After she spoke to the students around her, her gaze
lowered to the floor, then briefly flicked over to Takao.
Their eyes met, and hers were threatening to well up with
tears.
It is her.
The joy of seeing her burst up inside him, but it was
promptly swept away by something like fury, which was in
turn crowded out by bewilderment and questions. It was
suddenly hard to breathe, as if a strong wind had sucked
away all the oxygen around him.
“Wow, Yuki came to school.”
Beside him, Matsumoto’s comment sounded terribly far
away.

Satou and Matsumoto told him what had happened to

Ms. Yukino—to the teacher.
How the girls in her homeroom class had been harassing
her ever since the year before. How they’d unfairly blamed
her for “stealing” a girl’s boyfriend, boycotted her lessons
as a group, involved their parents, and bullied her right out
of school. How she’d finally decided to quit her job. How
the beginning and center of everything had been a girl
named Shouko Aizawa.
He was livid. He wasn’t sure whether he was angrier at
the Aizawa girl, or at Ms. Yukino for not mentioning that
she was a teacher, or at himself for his own ignorance.
But for the moment, he kept his raging emotions locked
up inside and managed to survive the rest of his classes. At
the chime that encouraged students to head home, he
looked down silently from a second-floor classroom,
watching her as she passed through the school gate. As
before, several students were trailing after her and crying.
The setting sun was a venomous red.
He went straight to the third-year classroom, by himself,
found a girl named Aizawa and told her he’d heard Ms.
Yukino was quitting. He hadn’t thought about what he’d do
afterward.
“Who cares about that slutty old hag?”
Before he could think at all, his hand had slapped
Aizawa’s face.

***
Takao realizes that he’s made a wrong turn, but he just
keeps walking. He’s on a residential street with very few
streetlights. The lukewarm wind rustles the power lines
and the trees along the road. A thin white moon hangs high
in the colorless night sky, but when he stares at it, it splits
into two or three thanks to a swollen left eyelid. They look
almost like nail clippings, and he thinks he can hear the
soft, lonely click, click sound of her cutting her toenails.
The fact that he isn’t part of that scene, that he never has
been part of it and probably never will be, plunges him into
inescapable sorrow.

His homeroom teacher came running to the classroom

and half dragged him to the hospital. By the time they
released him, night had fallen. The Sobu Line was packed
with homebound commuters, and when he grabbed the
ceiling strap and looked up, the dark window reflected his
swollen, gauze-bandaged face. His cheek throbbed and
pulsed like a different creature altogether. Saliva that
tasted like blood kept pooling in his mouth. Before long,
Takao had had enough of the pain and the crowds, and he
got off the train after Nakano.
After that, he walked west, following the tracks. He’d be
home in an hour or so. Walking on his own two feet, out in
the wind, was a better distraction from the pain in his face.
From time to time, he spit bloody saliva onto the asphalt.
It felt as if he’d climbed out of the audience into a play
when he hadn’t even known what it was about. He had no
idea what he should do next. He was only now realizing
that nobody had wanted him to make an appearance, and
yet he’d acted as if he were the protagonist.—He was so
mortified that he wished he could disappear.
When I was still in middle school, she was building
relationships I didn’t know about with Aizawa and her
group. Maybe they ended up causing trouble, but those
relationships must have been much deeper than our little
encounters. We never made any promises or anything.
I wasn’t even a part of her life until three months back,
and I was just a passerby who skipped school on rainy days.
Nobody ever asked me to make shoes for them.
She never once said she wanted to see me. She only
murmured that we might meet again.
I didn’t even imagine what might have happened to her. I
really was just thinking about myself.

When he rounds the corner of the residential street, he

comes out onto a bridge over the railway tracks. He stands
in the middle, calculating his current location. On his left,
the distant lights of the skyscrapers of Shinjuku look even
larger in the thick darkness. That means he should head
into the blackness on his right in order to get home. The
tile roofs along the street gleam faintly, as if they’re wet.
Far above them is her thin nail. Gazing at the trailing
clouds that drift across it, Takao absently thinks, I wonder
if it’ll rain tomorrow.

The next morning, there’s a thin cloud cover.

The sky above Tokyo is a seamless, endless blanket of
gray over a very, very quiet morning. Those clouds are
absorbing all the city noise, Takao thinks as he crosses
Koshu-Kaido Avenue, where the colors are even more
muted than usual.
When he walks through the park’s Shinjuku gate, he
remembers he’s forgotten his annual pass. Takao sighs a
little.
It’s not raining, and I don’t have my pass.
There’s no way she’ll be here.
He really shouldn’t have come, he knows, but he puts
¥200 into the ticket machine for admission. If he went to
school now, he’d be late anyway. Besides, if it had rained, I
might not have come here to begin with… So why exactly
am I here?
Well, whatever. It doesn’t matter now. As if he’s given up,
he sticks his ticket into the automatic gate. The metallic
clank as the gate opens echoes especially loudly in the
deserted park.
Keeping his mind carefully blank, he walks through the
park. He doesn’t have to think; his feet take the familiar
path all on their own. When he passes through the gloomy
district of thick Himalayan and Lebanon cedars, the air
quickly changes, as it always does. The temperature drops
about a degree, and the air is filled with the scents of water
and greenery. Small birds cut right in front of him, as if
they’re making invisible incisions in the air.
Without his umbrella up, the park seems oddly spacious,
and the anxiety of a defenseless child is rising within him.
More than ever, he senses he’s doing something misguided.
For that reason, when the arbor comes into view beyond
the maples, Takao is almost relieved to find that no one is
there.
No problem. This doesn’t hurt at all.
He says the words to himself deliberately, as if he’s
writing them down on paper.
After all, I knew she wouldn’t be coming anymore.
The moment he thinks it, a wave of feelings surges up
from his feet all the way to his throat, and he nearly shouts
aloud. No!
No, that’s wrong.
That’s not it.
I miss her.
I miss her, I want to see her, and there’s nothing I can do
about it on my own. I wanted to see her the right way.
That’s why I stubbornly refused to come here during
summer vacation.
The truth is, I don’t care if it’s raining or not; I don’t care
whether it’s sunny or snowing or cloudy. I just want to see
her.
I can’t let us end this way.
Suddenly, he hears a small, distant splash.
A fish might have jumped in the pond. Maybe a twig fell
into the water. But just maybe. He’s sure—
By the time he’s passed through the dense, hanging
curtain of maple leaves and can see the wisteria trellis, he’s
already convinced.
Her slim figure is there, in the pale-green shadows under
the thick leaves.
At the sound of his footsteps, she slowly turns. She’s
there, right in front of him, with the pond and its deep-
green reflections behind her. She’s wearing a form-fitting
gray suit, and her expression reminds him of a lost,
bewildered child. Softly, she looks at Takao, and her black
eyes are so transparent, he can see nearly all the way to
her heart. He trembles, as if she’s caressed his own heart
directly. She’s summer rain personified, Takao knows. He’s
sure no one can stop the rain. Somewhere in the distance,
thunder rumbles. The words he needs to say find their way
to his lips.
The thunder whispers.
Facing her under the wisteria trellis, Takao speaks.

“The thunder / whispers. / Yet should rain never fall, / I

would stay / at a word from you.”

The wind blowing over the pond gently ripples through

the wisteria leaves and the water and her hair. She looks
down, and her melancholy smile deepens. Out of nowhere,
he feels as if he’s seen something like this, a very long time
ago. After the ripples on the water recede, she looks up at
Takao.
“…Yes, that’s correct. That’s the response to the poem I
quoted on the day we met.”
She sounds almost like a child mimicking the tones of a
teacher. It’s just a little funny, and he feels his tension
slowly dissolve.
“They’re from the Man’yoshu, aren’t they? I found them
in my textbook yesterday.”
They were soumon-ka, romantic poems sent by a man
and woman to each other. If it rains, will you stay here? the
woman’s poem said, and the man’s responded, It doesn’t
have to rain; I’ll stay if you want me to. He’d heard those
poems in class. Takao wants to laugh at himself for taking
three whole months to figure it out. Then, summoning his
resolve, he says her name.
“Ms. Yukino.”
As he says it, he looks straight at her. She’s wearing a
complicated smile. She tilts her head slightly to one side,
gently brushing away the hair that falls over her cheek.
“…A little while after you arrived on that first day, I saw
the insignia on your uniform and realized we were from the
same school.” She pauses for a moment, inhaling slowly.
“So I thought if I told you a poem you’d probably learned in
class, you might figure out I was a classics teacher.
Besides, I thought most of the school knew about me by
now… But you never knew at all, did you?”
Takao shakes his head slightly. Her eyes soften, as if
she’s peering into light. When she speaks, her voice holds a
trace of a smile.
“I suspect you were seeing another world entirely.”
Suddenly, the clear song of a shrike sounds right next to
them. Startled, they look for the source and find two of
them flying over the pond, nearly tangled together. The two
humans watch them for a while, and when the birds
disappear into the shadows of the trees, Yukino sounds
worried as she asks, “Hey…what happened to your face?”
What should he tell her? He starts wanting to make her
worry.
 “I was drinking beer like you, Ms. Yukino, and I got
drunk and fell off the Yamanote Line platform.”
“You didn’t!” She puts a hand to her mouth, her eyes
wide.
She’s cute. Takao grins at her. “No, I didn’t. I just got in
a fight.”
Just then, it happens. The sky flashes pure white, and
there’s a clap of thunder.
The air trembles like the diaphragm on a speaker.
Lightning has struck, and it’s close. The two of them look
at each other, then up at the sky. The blanket has billowed
up into cumulonimbus clouds like gray clay, and streaks of
light flicker deep within like blood vessels. A low rumble
slowly rolls around above the clouds like a drum. Cold wind
suddenly whips the surface of the water into waves, and
several large drops fall, splashing loudly. Oh, it’s going to
rain. By the time the words reach his mind, the downpour
has already turned their surroundings misty white.
The leaves of the wisteria trellis are absolutely useless
as a roof, and Takao catches Yukino’s hand and takes off
running before he can even think. It feels like sprinting
through white, cloudy water. He can’t see what’s ahead of
him, and he can’t even hear the sound of his own feet over
the roar of the downpour. By the time they run into the
arbor, their hair and clothes are drenched.
“We look like we swam across a river,” Yukino says.
She’s panting, but she sounds like she’s having fun. Takao
laughs, too. Somewhere along the way, his heart has grown
as exhilarated as his breath. The rain is falling sideways,
carrying leaves with it; they give a cheer when it buffets
them. The clean, vivid smell of rain surrounds them, and it
feels as if all the air in the world has been replaced. The
next thing he knows, the rain has washed away their earlier
conversation and feelings. The events at school and the
loneliness of summer vacation are completely gone.
“I love summer downpours,” Yukino says happily,
watching the rain streaming from the eaves like a waterfall.
“Me too. Summer is my favorite season.”
“Even the really hot ones?”
“Those too. It makes me feel so alive—the humidity, the
sweat, the thirst. I love it. What about you, Ms. Yukino?”
“I like summer, too. Summer, and then spring. They’re
the seasons when new things begin and grow. I hate the
cold seasons, because I get chilly.”
What a reason! Takao is amused.
“But your name means ‘snow field,’ and you still—”
“Hate winter, yes.” Yukino laughs, finishing the sentence.
Then she touches the ends of her wet hair with her fingers
and glances at Takao, somewhat apologetically. Her plump
lips twitch a little, as if she’s started to say something to
herself, then decided against it.
“What?”
“Um…” Yukino hesitates, then speaks with some
determination. “What’s your name…?”
Takao cracks up; he can’t help it. A warm emotion fills
his chest. “It’s Akizuki. Takao Akizuki.”
“Hmm. Akizuki,” Yukino murmurs, testing the sound.
“Akizuki, hmm?” she says one more time. Abruptly,
triumphant realization appears on her face.
“But your name means ‘autumn moon’—!”
She’s like a kid, isn’t she, he thinks, but he answers her.
“But I like summer, yeah.”
They pause for a breath, and then they both giggle. It
feels like one more secret for just the two of them, and a
feeling of ticklish delight settles over the arbor.
Neither of them consciously makes the first move, but
they take their usual spots on the L-shaped bench after
that, with about enough space for two people between
them. Somewhere along the way, the places where they sit
have gotten a little closer than they were three months ago.
 The temperature is falling. The gusts of wind have
subsided, but the heavy rain brings air down from a very
high altitude. An abruptly autumnal chill blows into the
arbor, carrying a fine spray with it.
Yukino is sitting hunched over on the bench, hugging her
own shoulders. Is she cold? Takao worries. Her wet hair
hides her profile, and water drips from its ends. Her wet
trousers forlornly trace the contours of her round hips.
Behind her, a colony of yellow flowers at the edge of the
pond is shivering violently under the pounding rain. The
heavy scent of the flowers and water mingles with Yukino’s
faint, sweet fragrance beneath the dark arbor. Her sky-gray
suit seems specially tailored to match the gloom in the
arbor. Wet with the rain, Yukino looks perfectly at home
here.
The sight speaks straight to his soul.
When he looks at Yukino, Takao suddenly finds it hard to
breathe. His heart jumps and pounds, and the sound of the
rain recedes into someplace far away. His face and the core
of his body are growing hotter, and he can’t stop it. Slowly,
Takao tears his eyes away from her.
Suddenly, he sneezes. But I don’t feel cold at all, he
thinks, vaguely embarrassed. When he looks up, Yukino is
watching him. Slowly, almost as if she’s smelling a flower,
Yukino smiles kindly and says in a gentle voice, “If we stay
like this, we’ll catch cold.”

As they hurry out of the park, the force of the rain

gradually lessens, and the warmth of September returns to
the air. They go under the elevated Chuo Line, pass
Sendagaya Station and come out onto Gaien Nishi-dori,
then turn into a narrow street, and there’s Yukino’s
condominium.
The high-ceilinged lobby of the old building has a
nostalgic scent, like something he smelled at a relative’s
house when he was very small. The scent of old air. The
elevator is undergoing a maintenance inspection, so they
take the stairs up to her apartment on the eighth floor. He’s
out of breath, but as he follows Yukino up the narrow
stairway, her fragrance surrounds him, and he’s delighted
to find he can breathe it in as deeply as he wants.
As soon as they enter her apartment, Yukino tells him to
go shower and gives him a relaxed silk V-neck shirt and a
pair of sweatpants to change into. Then Yukino takes her
shower.
When she emerges, she’s wearing well-worn madder-red
jeans, a cream-colored tank top, and a pale-pink bolero
jacket. She smells faintly of soap, and she’s barefoot. His
ears burning, Takao secretly follows the patter of her feet
on the flooring.
Yukino puts Takao’s wet shirt in the washing machine,
blots the excess moisture from his uniform trousers with a
towel, and irons both items for him. While she does that,
Takao borrows the kitchen and makes lunch.
He’s a little disappointed that the only prominent item in
the refrigerator is beer, but there are onions and carrots
and lettuce and things in the vegetable drawer, and as long
as he cuts away the brown, discolored bits, everything
seems edible. She has eggs as well, so he decides to make
rice omelets. Instead of meat, he opens a can of tuna, using
it to replace chicken in the rice. He finds a jar of pickled
olives in among the spices (she must have bought them to
go with her beer), so he cuts them into slices and mixes
them with the lettuce, making side salads. There’s only
about a teaspoon left in the bottom of the bottle of salad
dressing, so he whips up something new from vinegar and
pepper and olive oil. The room is filled with the smells and
steam of cooking and ironing. This is what “family” smells
like, Takao thinks, content.
“Yum! I love ketchup!”
“High praise for my rice omelets.” Takao smirks.
 The two of them sit facing each other across a small
table.
“Be careful, there might be some eggshell in it.”
Yukino blinks, briefly puzzled by his remark, then gasps
as she puts two and two together.
“Oh, come on!” She laughs. “Are you still holding a
grudge about my rolled omelet?”
“Ha-ha-ha. I’ll never be able to forget it.”
“It wasn’t very good, was it?”
“Not very”? Takao finds the word choice amusing.
“‘Not good’ isn’t quite the, uh…” He glances at Yukino,
laughing. “It was bad. Horrible. To be honest.”
“I can live with that. Cooking has never been my
specialty anyway,” Yukino primly retorts, but then she
smoothly shifts into a smile and takes a bite of omelet rice.
She gets a little bit of ketchup on her lip, and she licks it off
lovingly.
“What else do you like, besides ketchup?” Takao asks.
“Hmm…” Yukino thinks for a little. “I like the taste of
Worcestershire sauce better than soy sauce. And
consommé.”
“…You sound a little like a high school guy.”
“Heh-heh, speaking from experience?”
“Hey, do you know how consommé soup is made?” Takao
asks, eating salad.
“Huh? Is it…from wheat? Wait, no. Barley?”
“It wells up from the ground. There’s a big pond of it
somewhere in northern France. It’s supposed to be this
really pretty, clear amber color.”
Yukino looks mystified.
“There are fish in it, too. They’re called consommé
poisson.”
“…You’re pulling my leg, right?”
“Obviously. Are you really a teacher, Yukino?”
“Th-that’s so mean!” He can actually see Yukino flushing
bright red, all the way down her slim neck. Curling her
fingers into a fist, she pounds on the table. “Akizuki, that is
unkind! You shouldn’t do that! You really shouldn’t!”
Her earnest protest is so funny, Takao laughs out loud.

They’ve cleared the dishes away, and now the warm

aroma of coffee is drifting in the room. There’s a green
curtain over the big patio door, and it gives the room a faint
green tint.
It’s like this room is underwater, Takao thinks as he
drinks the coffee Yukino has made him.
He’s sitting on the floor by the patio door, and when he
looks up, Yukino is in the kitchen pouring a cup for herself.
All he can see is her back, but he can tell very clearly that
she’s smiling, too. The sad, gentle patter of her bare feet
against the floor, the noise of the coffee dripping, and the
friendly clicks and clinks of the ceramic cups sound
strangely close to him, as if he’s hearing them underwater.
He’s surrounded by the sounds of Yukino and the rain.
Right now, in this moment, the unfair jealousy and hopeless
impatience and even the membrane of nebulous anxiety
that’s clung to him for the past few years have vanished
completely.

This just might be—

It occurs to Takao very suddenly. The feeling has drifted

up from the very deepest part of his heart, and he’s careful
to put it into words in his mind so that it won’t crumble
away.

Right here, right now…

I might be the happiest I’ve ever been.

 Narukami no / shimashi toyomoshi / furazutomo / ware ha
todomaramu / imo shi todomeba
(Man’yoshu volume 11:2514) Translation: The thunder /
whispers. / Yet should rain never fall, / I would stay / at a
word from you.

Context: A poem from a man to the woman who tried to use

the rain as an excuse to keep him there with her. He
tells her that, if it’s what she wants, he’ll stay. This
is the response to the woman’s poem in chapter 2.
 CHAPTER NINE

Indescribable.
—Yukari Yukino and Takao Akizuki
Right here, right now, I might be the happiest I’ve ever
been.

Yukino can feel it.

But she knows this happiness won’t last much longer. It
will end, and it will end soon. She realized it while she was
taking her shower, as if the hot water had opened her eyes.
But this moment of bliss isn’t over yet. She’s warm and
cozy, right down to her toes; her lips are happy and
cheerful. Gently, she pours hot water over the coffee
grounds. As they swell, air bubbles whisper, and a fragrant
aroma rises. The drip-drip into the transparent carafe
mingles with the sound of the rain. Gods, please, Yukino
prays. Let this time with Akizuki last just a little longer.
Don’t let our rain stop just yet.
“Yukino,” he says behind her.
She turns around, a smile still on her lips. He’s smiling,
too, watching her.
“Yukino, I—” he says.
Oh. It’s already time.
“—I think I love you.”
He’s watching Yukino steadily as he speaks. She can tell
very clearly that he hadn’t been planning to divulge his
feelings until this very moment. It just slipped out, beyond
his control. That’s not fair. I…
It feels as if she were watching herself from a distance;
Yukino is aware her cheeks are growing warmer and
warmer. I’m happy. Everything in me is buzzing with
delight. But…
But I can see that happy version of myself in the
distance. I’m reaching out to her, and I don’t know if I’ll
reach her in time. I need to pull her back to my side; I have
to make her say the right thing. No matter what. I set my
coffee cup down on the counter and finally let out the
breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I worry that it sounded
scornful, and I start wanting to make excuses: No, that’s
not what I meant. But for now, I have to say the right thing.
I have to reprimand him gently, the way a teacher should.
“—Ms. Yukino. Remember?”
When he hears my reply, his lips part slightly, as if he
wants to say something, but he gives up and lowers his
head. I can sense that he’s more surprised than
disappointed. Like when you cheerfully take someone’s
hand and they shake you off. My heart stings. I pick up my
coffee cup and walk over to him. When I sit down on the
chair, it gives a little creak. He’s sitting on the floor, and I
look down at him as I speak.
“I’m sure you’ve heard I left my job at the school.”
He doesn’t respond. I keep going.
“I’ll be moving next week. I’m going back to live with my
parents on Shikoku.”
He stays silent, but he looks up at me as if he’s asking
what I really mean. I lower my head instead and make
excuses.
“I made the decision ages ago. Here’s the thing about
that arbor—”
An image of the empty arbor rises behind my eyelids. It’s
wet, darkened by the rain, and as miserable as an old man
abandoned by his wife of many years.
“I was practicing walking on my own. I was practicing
alone…”
Finish your thought, Yukino tells herself, as if she were
scolding a small child. Tell him you don’t need him. She
clenches her toes.
“—Without shoes.”
Like a stone dropped into a deep hole, it takes a long
time for those words to reach him. There’s the sense of a
soft click, as if the stone has struck bottom, and then…
“…So?” he says in a voice devoid of emotion. His gaze is
so straightforward that it frightens her.
“So…” Yukino averts her eyes slightly. “Thank you for
everything, Akizuki.”
Silence falls. As if to fill it, the sound of the rain swells
again. The row of potted plants on the balcony are filled
with clear water, and they look almost like miniature
aquariums. Before long, he quietly gets to his feet. The
sound of rustling fabric seems especially loud. As he
speaks, he looks down at Yukino.
“Um, thank you for these clothes.” He starts toward the
washroom. “I’ll go change.”
“But they aren’t dry yet…!” In spite of herself, she calls
after his receding back. No, don’t. It’s better this way.
Yukino tears her eyes away from him and looks down at the
coffee cup in her hands. She hears a soft click as he shuts
the bathroom door.
She hasn’t even started on her coffee yet, and she brings
the cup to her lips. The steam rises gently, dampening her
eyelashes slightly. She tries to drink, but the cup feels so
heavy, she sets it down on the table instead. A mass of
spiny emotions is bumbling around inside her like a
hedgehog. It’s a little like regret, and a little like guilt, full
of prickling pain and wordless accusations.
Then what should I have done?! Yukino is about to burst
into tears. I was never given a choice. I’ve always, always
tried to be sincere with everybody; I just wanted to be a
kind, gentle adult like Ms. Hinako. Whenever anybody
wanted anything from me, I’ve always done whatever I
could. Gazing at the gradually thinning steam from her
coffee, Yukino thinks. I wanted to stop being on the outside
of the world looking in. I wanted to be part of it. And the
closer I got to being a grown-up, the more possible it
seemed. I started believing I might be able to live like
everybody else. And then the next thing I knew, I was in the
middle of all this; it was as unavoidable as the rain. Mr. Itou
came along, and Makino, and then Aizawa, until everything
was all screwed up, and then, after I fought so hard to find
a roof that would shelter me from the rain, along came
Akizuki. Everyone made me so uncertain. I wanted them to
leave me in peace. It was all I could do just to stand on my
own—it took all I had not to spend every day curled up in a
little ball.
Slowly, footsteps approach her, and she raises her head.
He’s standing in the pale blue-green shadows, wearing a
uniform that must still be damp.
“—Um, I…I’m going home. Thank you for everything,” he
nearly whispers, bowing deeply. Then, without waiting for
Yukino’s response, he starts toward the front door.
“Oh!”
In spite of herself, Yukino stands up. Wait. Don’t go yet.
You don’t have an umbrella, do you? Why not wait until the
rain stops?—No, no, I can’t afford to say it. Silently, Yukino
lowers herself to the chair once again. His footsteps
recede. She listens to him put on his shoes, then pull down
the door handle. And then…
Ptunk.
The door falls shut behind him.
It makes her furious.
“—Stupid, stupid!”
Shouting, she grabs the chair and swings it high, ready
to throw it at something. But she’s glaring into empty space
now; no one’s there. Deflated, she shakily lowers the chair
again and sits back down on it.
“Stupid.” She murmurs it again softly. “Akizuki, you’re an
idiot.”
How dare you act like I dumped you? Like you’re the
innocent victim here? You have no idea how I felt all those
days alone in the arbor during summer vacation. I’m sure
your first summer vacation of high school was full of fun.
You eat dinner with your family every night, and I’m sure
you go out for tea with girls in your grade. You’re
completely incapable of understanding anything at all
about the life of a woman who’s twelve years older than
you, and you’re just—!
The inside of her nose prickles. Hot breath catches in
her throat; her chest constricts; her eyes well with tears.
She presses her palms tightly against her eyes to stop the
rising flood, and a flickering pattern like a delicate white
maze dances across the insides of her damp eyelids. On the
table, her untouched coffee is silently continuing to cool.
You’re the one who ended this, you know, Yukino thinks,
almost hatefully. You really are still a child. If you’d just
kept your mouth shut, maybe we could’ve eaten together
again. Maybe we could’ve traded contact information, and
maybe you could’ve come to say good-bye on the day I left
for home. We could have quietly closed the door on this
relationship in peace, without all this pain.
I held my ground.
I didn’t say it.

I didn’t tell you I loved you.

…But I finally let myself think it.

Slowly, Yukino raises her face from her hands. I was always
careful to keep those words from my mind, but now—
It’s the push she needs, and she breaks into a run.
She slams the front door open with her shoulder and
flies out into the corridor. She dashes right by the elevator,
with its CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE sign, and opens the
emergency door. Outside, the gray downpour has grown
even heavier. She runs down the narrow stairway attached
to the outer wall. Rain blows in incessantly, and Yukino
splashes through the puddles on the urethane rubber
stairs. Her toes slip in the water, and she falls down a short
flight of steps. She puts her hands out, catching herself on
the landing, but her cheek scuffs hard against the floor. The
front of her outfit is sopping wet again. But Yukino doesn’t
register the pain or the cold; she gets up and starts running
again, then stops.
He’s there, one landing below hers. He’s resting both
elbows on the chest-high wall, looking out over the misty,
hazy town. A whisper of thunder echoes very near the two
of them, as if it found its way here from some distant sky.
The thunder whispers—
The words surface in her mind, but she’s unable to think
of any others.
As if he’s heard her anyway, he slowly turns around.

I never even dreamed that Yukino would come after me.

Or maybe I was hoping she would, and that’s why I was
waiting here. I don’t really know.
“Um…,” she quietly begins as she slowly descends the
stairs.
Takao doesn’t want to hear any of it. “Forget what I said
back there, okay, Yukino?”
He manages to say the words naturally and decisively, as
if he’s practiced. He meets her eyes and says what he feels
he has to say—what he ought to say, for her sake.
“I actually hate you after all.”
Raindrops blow in, striking his cheek. Yukino’s eyes
scrunch up a bit with grief. How dare you? After everything
that’s happened, now you’re acting all upset? Damn you,
Takao thinks, and he means it.
“Even from the beginning…I never really liked you. I
mean, you were drinking beer in the park first thing in the
morning, quoting random poems at people…”
All the emotions this rain-woman has made him feel—all
the bewilderment and frustration and jealousy, the
adoration and wishes and prayers and hope and despair—
little by little turn into anger. It’s getting harder to stop
talking.
“You never said anything about yourself; you just kept
asking about me. You knew I was a student, right? You
liar!”
I hate her. I hate her. Look at her acting like I hurt her
and now she’s about to break down—damn her!
“If I’d known you were a teacher, I would’ve kept my
mouth shut about the shoes. You were sitting there thinking
I could never make it happen, weren’t you? Why didn’t you
just say it?! Did you think you had to just smile and nod at
the stupid dream of a stupid kid?”
And only a stupid kid would stand here yelling at you
this way. I hate it!
“The whole time, you knew it was just a fantasy!
Everything—all of it! You knew I’d never be enough!”
I’m crying like a loser in front of a woman—I hate this.
All this time, I’ve been trying to grow up, and now you’re
making me feel this way. Damn you!
“So just say it! Pat me on the head and tell the little kid
to run along to school! Tell me you hate me!”
If you don’t, I’ll end up loving you my whole life. I love
you, I love you, I love you, and even now, I’m falling deeper
moment by moment.
“You—!”
Stop it, stop it! Why are you crying?
“You’ll just look the other way forever—”

Tears are trickling down Akizuki’s face.

He’s screaming.

“—and live your life alone!”

My breath catches.
 I can’t take it any longer.
Barefooted, I break into a run.

She pulls me into a tight hug,

her sweet scent sends my heart spinning,
and she bursts out in a loud cry.
The sound of her tears falling like heavy rain makes my
breath catch in my throat.
Yukino’s body is trembling against me, and she buries
her face in my shoulder. She pushes her cold nose against
my neck, sobbing like a child. I’m too stunned to lift a
finger.
“Every…morning…”
I can hear strangled words among her sobs.
Every morning.
Under Yukino’s damp breath, my right shoulder is so hot
it feels like it’s on fire.
“Every morning…! I tried to do it right—I put on my
suit…and…tried to go to school…!”
The heat from my shoulder is spreading into the rest of
me, and tears keep oozing from my eyes as if that heat had
melted ice hidden somewhere inside me.
“But I was too scared… It was too much…”
In my blurred vision, something sparkles and shines.
It’s the rain.
The rain around us is glittering in the evening sun.
“Back there,” she says, sobbing. Her sweet, tearful voice
speaks right by my ear.
“Back there, you—…”
I want Yukino to stop crying, want to stop crying myself,
and I hug her tightly to hold back the tears. I press her
petite head against my neck with all the strength I’ve got. I
want to break her, to protect her, to cherish her as my
heart is ready to shatter and there’s nothing I can do.
 As if the force of our embrace has pushed all the air from
her lungs, Yukino cries out: “You saved me!”

And Yukino bursts into sobs.

And Akizuki bursts into sobs.

Words can’t express any of it, and they cling to each other
for warmth in a frigid world.
Between the wet buildings, beneath the setting sun to
the west, lie a green park and a cluster of skyscrapers like
distant peaks.
Like flames in the wind, for a moment, the gilded rain
flares brighter.
 Natsu no no no / shigezumi ni sakeru / himeyuri no /
shiraenu koi ha / kurushiki monoso
(Man’yoshu volume 8:1500) Translation: Like a star lily /
blooming in the undergrowth / of a summer field, / unseen
and unanswered / secret love is painful indeed Context: A
poem by Sakanoue no Iratsume. It compares the pain of a
secret love to a single deep-red flower blooming in a
meadow covered with green leaves as far as the eye can
see.
 CHAPTER TEN

Adult Speed I Can’t Keep Up With, My Son’s Lover, the

World That Refuses to Fade.
—Reimi Akizuki
It’s such a pleasant morning that I decide to take a
different route for a change.
When I twist the steering wheel, the sun swings around
from behind me to the right-hand window. The low morning
light slowly flows up my body, gently warming my right side
to remind me that spring’s finally here.
It was a really cold winter. In February, even Tokyo got
heavy snowfall. I kept my winter tires on the whole time,
and obstinate blankets of snow lingered in the shade,
getting blacker and dirtier. But when March came around
and the Kanto area left the long tunnel of rain, the air
prickling against your skin softened, and the pale green of
grass and trees slowly began to color the landscape. “Long
spring rains” strikes me as a very apt phrase.
I set a finger on the switch, opening the driver’s side
window a crack. The smell of spring promptly blows into
the car. It’s a special chill unique to this season, suffused
with that sense of something new on the horizon. The
emotions of those times—the excitement and sorrow and
romance and anxiety and anticipation of entrance
ceremonies and graduations—rise inside me again all at
once. Even after I’ve attended so many school events for
my two sons, the scent of spring carries to me my own
adolescence.
Excitement is bubbling up inside me, and Eeeeek, I have
to buy something new for spring and go to the salon and
mixers and dates and out to explore and drink! My head is
full of prospects and desires.
The traffic light in front of me turns red, and I slowly
step on the brake, lecturing myself: No, no, you’re not as
young as you used to be. No more mixers anyway. I take a
deep breath. Breathe in, breathe out. God, the weather’s
beautiful. Leaning over the steering wheel, I look up.
 The sky is the color of blue ink dissolved in plenty of
water, pale and transparent, and the first scattered cherry
blossoms are closer to white than pink. The young leaves
that have just begun to bud on the miscellaneous trees are
the pale green of the first stroke of a careful painter.
Oh, I see.
And then it hits me. Those shoes my son showed me
were meant for a spring day like this one. They were shoes
for someone who was beginning to walk in a new place on a
promising spring morning.
I wonder what she’s like. Shifting my right foot to the
accelerator, I consider the question with a little grin. What
kind of girl has he fallen madly, probably hopelessly in love
with? What kind of girl made him want to give her spring
shoes?

***

“Don’t think of me as your son,” my son said.

It was a snowy night, so it must have been nearly two
months ago. I’d come home late, eaten the dinner he’d
made, and taken a bath, and I was sitting at the kitchen
table for a tiny drink before going to bed. It was already
past one in the morning.
“Hmm?” I looked at him. He was deadly serious.
“I want an outside opinion. Could you take a look at
these?”
With that, my son set a pair of women’s shoes on the
table. They smelled ever so faintly of leather and glue.
“My, those are lovely!” I said, and I meant it.
They were rather small pumps, with heels about two and
a half inches tall. The toes were pastel pink, the bodies
were a flesh color so pale, it was nearly white, and the
heels were lemon yellow, as if they’d been exposed to the
sun. They had long straps that would wind around the
ankles, with little leaf shapes made of apple-green leather
sewn to the tips. The color scheme was pale and unreliable,
and the shoes themselves were so delicate, they looked as
if they might dissolve into thin air and vanish if they were
left here overnight.
“…You made these?”
I couldn’t imagine them sitting on display in a mass
retail store. And if they had, they would probably have
gotten eclipsed by other, gaudier shoes. These were clearly
shoes for someone.
“Yeah, but…I don’t want that to bias you. I want to know
what you think of them, as a woman.”
My son said it again. His face was red, and he was
staring at the floor. He sounded so serious, I was afraid he
might break down in tears. My heart ached; he had worked
on these for dear life.
“Let’s see…” I picked up one of the shoes. It was as light
as it looked. The feel of the soft, velvety leather made me
think of a small newborn animal with a rapid heartbeat. I
tilted it at different angles, closed my hand around the
heel, touched the stitches in the leather. These were
probably the first women’s shoes he’d managed to finish.
What should I tell him…?
“They’re a little small for me, and I really doubt I could
wear them, but I like the design. They aren’t showy, but
they still have a presence. If these were on display at a
studio I liked, they’d catch my eye,” I said, then looked at
my son.
There was so much urgency in his eyes as he waited for
me to continue, I worried he might blow up. T-talk about
pressure. You’re my kid, but this is hard.
“For the work of a high school hobbyist, I think they’re
very well done. And I’m not just saying that because I’m
your mother.”
“And if they weren’t?” he asked, as if he was bracing
himself. Here we go, I thought, giving up. What you want to
hear is the next part, isn’t it? This is my job as your mom.
“—Let’s see. I don’t think you could sell them, and
actually walking in them would be a little hard. They might
only last a few days before they broke. Although I can’t say
for sure.”
My son’s lips parted as if he wanted to say something,
then closed again. As he waited, his eyes were almost teary.
Sheesh, relax! No need to worry so much about everything,
I think, and go on.
“The leather is wrinkled, and there are lots of fine
scratches, but that’s part of the charm of handmade things.
As long as you aren’t selling them, I mean. But—okay, look
here. When you look at them from the back, the heels are
attached so that they don’t quite mirror each other.”
I turned the heels to face my son.
“The way they bear her weight will differ between one
side and the other, and the more she uses them, the more I
think the heels will lean. I also think the middle of the
insole is probably too soft.”
“The shank?”
“Yes, is that what it’s called? A shank?”
As I spoke, I put a finger into the shoe and pressed down
hard on the instep. The whole thing warped.
“You see? It’s probably going to bend whenever she
takes a step. So…”
“So they really aren’t practical.” He finished my
sentence wearily.
“Probably not,” I admitted.
My son gave a little laugh.
“If you’re already catching all that, Mom, a pro would
probably demolish them. I guess studying by myself really
isn’t going to cut it.”
He looked relieved. He’s good at letting go and moving
on; it’s one of the great things about him. I was relieved,
too.
“Man, I’d say a sixteen-year-old boy who taught himself
how to make high heels is plenty weird.”
“Ha-ha.” He gave a brief laugh. “Thanks for the
feedback. That was really helpful. You’re having a nightcap,
right, Mom? Want me to make you some snacks?”
“Yaaay! Thanks, Takao.”
Ahh, yes. Home is so sweet, I thought, gazing at Takao’s
back as he opened a can in the kitchen. At my younger
lover’s house, where I’d lived until the end of the previous
year, all the cooking had been my job, without exception.
Shouta, my oldest son, and I had fought constantly. He’d
moved out, and I’d returned after several months away and
was living here with Takao. Now that it was just the two of
us, though, our days were very peaceful and pleasant. The
cleaning and laundry had gradually turned into Takao’s
jobs, too, after I ran away. Ahh, it’s so nice here. I’m glad I
had a second kid.
“…What?”
Sensing my eyes on him, Takao turned around.
“Ohh, I was just thinking I was glad I made you.”
“Don’t say it like that. Here.”
Turning red, he thunked a small bowl down on the table
in front of me, a little roughly. Male virgins are so cute
when you tease them (and I’m pretty sure he is one). The
bowl held a row of canned sardines and shredded pickled
plums rolled up in green shiso leaves.
“So who are you giving those to?” I asked Takao, starting
on my second glass of shochu.
“What?” Takao looked up from his tea.
“You know. Who are the shoes for? Your girlfriend?”
“Wha…”
This kid turns red at the drop of a hat.
“I—I don’t have a girlfriend,” Takao protested hastily.
“Whoa, then you’re telling me you made shoes for a
crush?”
Whoops, too much pressure. Oh, virgins. And teenage
boys in love.
 Takao looked down sullenly; he seemed cross. Oh, other
people’s romances are so much fun. I took a gulp of
shochu, then reached for the snacks with my chopsticks.
Damn, why do pickled plums and shiso go together so well?
“So, this girl. I bet she’s older than you, isn’t she?” I
pointed at him with my chopsticks, grinning, and Takao
flinched and looked at me.
“Those shoes aren’t for a high schooler. C’mon, where
did you meet her? Is she in college? How much older is
she?”
Takao turned beet red, scratched at his earlobe, slurped
his tea, and refused to look at me as he started rambling.
“Uh, umm, I’m pretty sure she’s eighteen or nineteen, so
two or three years, maybe?”
Liar. I could sense it from the way he was acting. She
might be a working adult, maybe even a decade or so older
than he was. Poor thing. I don’t think that one’s gonna
work out, kiddo. I was getting a real kick out of this.
“Hmm. You wanna drink a bit?”
“No way! I’m going to bed.”
Aw, he got away. Man, Takao’s all grown up now, too, I
thought as I drank by myself that evening, indulging in the
emotions of that little revelation. Takao hasn’t mentioned
shoes since then.

***

“Listen, I told you yesterday: Counter services are only

available until five o’clock. Remember?”
I can hear Kobayashi’s shrill voice. A female student says
something in protest. Kobayashi yells, “I told you, no means
no!” and then there’s a swish as she closes the reception
window curtain. Smacking the switch to turn off the
fluorescent lights behind the counter, she marches back
over to the desk beside mine in her blue tiered skirt.
 “What was that?”
I’ve been making up a list of items to order from the
bookstore, but I pause to ask her my question. Her shapely
eyebrows draw together in annoyance as she answers.
“She just brought the tuition for last term’s classes.
Now.”
“For last term? But the payment deadline was a full
month ago.”
“Yes, and we’ve sent her two reminders. And she
brought cash, even though we told her over and over that
she had to transfer it into the bank account! And the
revenue division’s already closed anyway.”
She starts getting ready to go home, moving as if she’s
not sure what to do with her pent-up anger. I choose not to
point out that we’ve still got thirty minutes before it’s really
time to leave.
“Hey, could I see her file?” Without waiting for her
response, I take a peek at her computer. “Which one is
she?”
She looks annoyed, but she points her out anyway. “This
one, Momoka Nakajima.”
Scanning the rows of figures, I yelp, “Wait, wait, today’s
her final deadline!” I rush out of the office and run after the
girl walking down the corridor. “Ms. Nakajima!”
Momoka Nakajima turns around, and I catch a strong
whiff of vanilla perfume.
“What?”
“Listen, if you don’t pay your tuition today, they’re going
to take you off the register!”
“Huh?” Momoka Nakajima just sounds grumpy, as if she
doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation, and I take
her back to the office and explain. At a university, if you
don’t pay your tuition, you get taken off the register—and
that basically means you’re fired. The payment period
technically ended a month ago, and the grace period was
over today, and she was supposed to deposit the required
amount in the bank by three this afternoon. All of which
meant that bringing cash after five wasn’t going to cut it.
Momoka Nakajima, who has a sweet face and is wearing
light, perfectly applied makeup, angrily asks me what she’s
supposed to do now.
Listen, if you had time to do all that makeup, you must
have had time to go to the bank. But I just tell her that
given the circumstances, we’ll accept her payment in cash,
just this once. I take the envelope she holds out to me and
count the bills, thinking up an excuse to give to the finance
department as I work. …Huh? I recount them three times.
“…You’re short by twenty thousand yen.”
“Seriously? What am I going to do? That’s all I have
today…” Momoka Nakajima turns her damsel-in-distress
makeup job toward me and glances at the nametag that’s
hanging from my neck. “Ms. Akizuki, could you pay it for
me for now? I’ll totally pay you back tomorrow—er, next
week!”
I fight back the sudden urge to throw the envelope at
her, and after about five minutes of discussion, in exchange
for her parents’ address and phone number, I take ¥20,000
out of my wallet.
“That was ridiculous,” Kobayashi says, after I’ve sent
Momoka Nakajima on her way and returned to my desk. “If
she gets taken off the register, it’s her own fault. She’s not
a child anymore; I don’t think there’s any need for us to go
that far for her.”
“…Kobayashi, had you noticed?”
“Huh?”
“That today was her final deadline.”
Kobayashi doesn’t answer the question and snaps back,
“That was a chance for her to learn how society works. It
would’ve done her more good in the end.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” I say. I’m gazing at
Kobayashi’s prettily decorated fingernails. She’s an
attractive new graduate, and to me, she looks as if she
could be Momoka Nakajima’s classmate.
“I don’t think universities are like the customer service
window at city hall or a bank. Of course the school is a
corporation as well, but it’s an educational institution first
and foremost. University employees are just like the
faculty: We earn our pay for doing things that support
students’ growth and help them graduate into society. We
need to be on the students’ side, not the administration’s.”
“So we should spoil them, is what you’re saying.”
Rolling her eyes, Kobayashi grabs her bag—a little
designer number with a yellow monogram pattern—and
starts for the door without even saying good-bye. I want to
lob a pencil at her back, but I manage to control myself.

“You should’ve thrown that pencil.” Shimizu laughs. He

takes a drink of his oolong tea.
“Well, I couldn’t do that. I gotta work with her.”
The restaurant’s cramped interior is filled with noise and
the smoke from grilling meat.
“I’m still mad, though. Kids these days are so eager to
punish other people—they don’t let anything slide for
anyone except themselves. They don’t even think about
how many times others have forgiven them, and yet they
demand morals and ethics and their particular brand of
common sense from others. They’re proud, but they’re
starving for validation, and yet they don’t want to recognize
the value in other people.”
After my rant, I gulp down a swig of beer. “You’ve been
holding that in for a while,” Shimizu comments cheerfully.
“I think I see where the Kobayashi girl is coming from, too,
though.”
I glare at him, but he just gives me a conciliatory smile
and elaborates.
“Students these days are full of themselves, you know?
They think of themselves as customers. Doesn’t it make you
want to teach them a lesson?”
“No. Nobody has the right to teach other people a
lesson,” I retort, leaning over the table for emphasis, just
as a platter of meat arrives.
“Well, never mind, Reimi. I’ll grill you some Korean-style
spareribs.”
Shimizu’s bony hands busily line up spareribs on the
grill. That alone is enough to melt my irritation away.
“Hey, Reimi, the tripe is incredible.”
“This skirt steak is actually edible, Shimizu.”
“We’re still okay on rice, aren’t we? Let’s get some
Korean lettuce.”
Watching Shimizu stuff his face with meat makes me feel
as if I’m watching a child eat. Yes, that’s right, eat up.
Technically, at thirty-six, he’s already in middle age, but he
seems like a student. Partly because he’s always in street
clothes. He’s a thin man with short-cropped hair and
plastic-framed glasses. He sometimes looks even more like
a kid than my oldest, Shouta, who’s twenty-seven this year.
“By the way, Reimi, is there a reason you took a job at a
university?”
As I answer, I wrap some meat in a lettuce leaf for
Shimizu. “Well, I told you I had my oldest when I was in
college, remember? I took about a year off from school
around when he was born. After that, I went back to school
while I raised him, and I graduated, and when I was looking
around for an employer…”
“Oh, that’s right. Your professor gave you an
introduction to the university.”
“Mm-hmm, he found me a job as the school affairs
assistant for a lab. I wanted to keep working even after I
married, and I liked Japanese literature. Academia itself,
really.”
“Hmm.”
“Society was still pretty straitlaced back then, and
getting married and giving birth while you were in school
was pretty unusual. This was just after the Equal
Employment Opportunity Law was amended, but in
practice, I think somebody in my position would have had a
hard time finding a job with an ordinary company.”
I pick up my mug and drain what’s left of my beer.
“So I’m grateful to that professor, and for the
university’s response. ‘Academic freedom is guaranteed.’
Educational institutions should be the guardians of
diversity, et cetera.”
After that little speech, I order a draft beer from a
passing server. “What about you, Shimizu?”
“Okay, get me a refill.”
“All right, one beer and one oolong tea, please.”
Shimizu doesn’t drink. “It’s not that I can’t,” he told me
once, when I pressed him as to how on earth he managed
to reset his mood without alcohol. “I’m not sure how to put
it; I just don’t feel the need.”
At the table across from us, a couple is picking at their
meat. The girl is wearing contemporary makeup and
reminds me of Momoka Nakajima and Kobayashi. The guy’s
in his midtwenties and wearing a suit; he looks as if he’s on
his way home from the office. From what I can see, I’d say
they’ve been going out for about six months. After this,
they’ll probably stop by a convenience store, pick up snacks
and tomorrow’s breakfast, then go to one of their
apartments, his or hers, and sleep in the same bed. They’ll
continue their relationship, fighting about silly little things
and getting jealous, and in about a year or so, they’ll hit a
turning point. They’ll either split up or get married, or
maybe their nebulous relationship will continue. All of a
sudden, I wonder how we look to other people: a forty-
eight-year-old woman and her boyfriend twelve years her
junior, in a fairly cheap yakiniku restaurant.
“Come to think of it, isn’t your younger son almost in
college, Reimi?”
The tripe on the grill sizzles and shrinks, broiling over
the flames. While he asks his question, Shimizu uses his
chopsticks to peer at the underside of the meat, as if
keeping a careful eye on its progress.
“Yes, he’s in his second year of high school,” I answer.
Shimizu isn’t the jealous type, so I can talk to him freely
about my ex-husband and my children. I’ve told him my
story: When I was still in school, I had an unplanned
pregnancy with a trading company employee five years
older than me, and I decided to go through with it; I
married the man, whose name was Takashi, and we chose
our children’s names—Shouta, Takao—using the shiritori
game, linking their first and last syllables in a chain. My
husband’s overseas assignment was extended and we
gradually drifted apart; we got divorced when my second
son started middle school.
Shimizu always listens to me with a tranquil expression.
It’s as if I’m telling him about a natural phenomenon—how
the sun evaporates seawater and turns it into clouds, and
the westerlies carry it until it becomes rain and falls on
Japan—and he’ll say “Hmm” and listen with interest. “I
don’t really understand why people get jealous of each
other,” he told me once.
Still, I think, as I stare at the grilling meat. He doesn’t
drink, doesn’t get jealous, doesn’t get mad—does he
actually like me at all? Does he actually care for me that
deeply, or is he simply indifferent? When I drink with him,
that question always comes to mind, and today is no
exception. But I stuff it back down and keep talking about
my son.
“But here’s the thing—instead of going on to college, he
says he wants to study shoemaking.”
“Shoes? Meaning he wants to be a shoemaker?”
“I guess.”
Shimizu seems to be lost in thought.
“…That is a little unusual. You’d make even less of a
living with that job than as a designer. I’m sure he wants to
work on the creative side, not in a factory or anything,
right? He wants a studio, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Yeah, most likely.”
“Sorry if this is rude, but he’s not just trying to escape
the university entrance exams, is he?”
“No, I don’t think so. He’s made several pairs already in
the past couple years.”
“Huh? At home, by himself?”
“Uh-huh. It looks like he’s using money from his part-
time job to get all the tools he needs.”
When I tell him that, Shimizu gets excited and starts
peppering me with unusually enthusiastic questions: “What
sort of shoes is he making?” “What do you think, as his
mother?” I wonder if my graphic designer boyfriend feels a
sort of affinity with him.
“He’s the real deal,” he says. “Takao, wasn’t it? He’s got
the passion, at least. There are lots of young kids who want
to become something. They tend to ask lots of questions
online, go out and teach themselves all the critics’ jargon,
and then rip apart the works of others. And it’s not that I
don’t get how they feel, but…”
Carefully watching the meat on the grill, Shimizu speaks
quietly, as if he’s reminding himself of this, too.
“But when people really, really want to make something
with their whole heart, before they ask any questions or say
anything to anybody, they’re already making it.”

By the time I get home, it’s midnight. When I open the

door, I hear my older son call, “Welcome back” from the
kitchen. “You’re late. Were you out drinking?”
Shouta is sitting at the table by himself, drinking my
shochu. He’s removed his tie and is wearing a pale-cyan
dress shirt; the pickles he apparently bought at the
convenience store are sitting on the table, along with one
of the smartphones his company deals in. In the light of the
old public apartment’s dim lamp, he looks almost like a
stranger I just happened to spot on a commuter train.
“Mm-hmm, I had dinner with Shimizu. But we don’t
usually see you around these parts, Shouta. What’s up?”
“I came by to pick up my summer clothes and stuff.”
“Hmm,” I say. I go into my room, change out of my suit
and into a pink hoodie, and come back to the kitchen. I
don’t really want to drink more alcohol, but my hands feel
empty without it, and I take a can of beer out of the fridge.
I open the pull tab as I sit down across from Shouta. It’s
blindingly obvious that we’re both in bad moods. For a
long, awkward silence, all we do is sip our drinks. Hey, he’s
the kid here, not me, I remember, and I try to draw him out
with “So? How’ve you been?”
“Eh, nothing to report, really. What about you, Mom?”
“I’m fine—just trucking along. What about Takao? Did
you have dinner together?”
“No, I didn’t stop by until after dinner. He washed the
dishes, folded the laundry, and went to bed.”
“Mm.”
The conversation promptly peters out. Shouta doesn’t
like hearing about my boyfriend, and I don’t want to hear
about the girl he’s living with. We both know that very well.
“…This kitchen sure is dark. How old is this place?”
Shouta asks.
“About forty years, I think,” I tell him.
“Coming here is always kinda depressing. It’s dark, it’s
poorly constructed, and it just feels cheap. Like those old
dishes, or the sticker residue on the pillars. You should
really scrub this place down.”
“It’s fine like this. Don’t touch it.”
“I’m not touching it.”
What did you come here for? I swallow my reply along
with my beer. Sitting here across from my grumpy son, I’m
slipping into the memory of that long, dark night when
Takeshi Fujisawa and I talked about divorcing. Shouta is
older now than Takeshi was when I married him.
“He’s already in his second year of high school, huh.”
Shouta’s tone softens just a little. He’s talking about Takao.
“Sure is.”
“It’s about time for him to start thinking about after
graduation, isn’t it? Have you talked with Takao about it?”
I finally catch on. Shouta was waiting for me because he
wanted to talk about this. I pick up the beer can in front of
me, realize it is already empty, stand up, and get a shochu
glass.
“He says he isn’t going to university. Sounds like he’s
trying to decide between a trade school or foreign
exchange.”
“Wait, seriously?” Shouta’s voice gets louder. “Foreign
exchange? The hell?”
I return to my chair with the glass. I wait for Shouta to
pour my shochu for me, but he doesn’t move. I end up
pouring it myself and adding hot water.
“I mean, he can go into shoemaking if that’s what he
wants, but he should still go to university first, right? What
do you think about all this, Mom?”
“Well, I don’t know. I’m planning to take my time and
talk it over with him, but it’s his life, you know?”
Here comes another fight, I think, sighing internally.
Shouta and I always end up quarreling over Takao. It’s like
we’re a married couple with different opinions about our
son’s education.
“I can’t believe I have to say this, Mom,” Shouta says
with judgment in his voice, “but Takao’s still just sixteen,
and you’re the only parent he’s got. Please, for the love of
God, act like one. He’s not your housekeeper.”
“I’m not treating him like a housekeeper.”
Shouta ignores my objection.
“Like, sit down with him and talk about the huge
difference between the average salaries of high school
graduates and college graduates. Let him know how hard it
is to find a job when there’s a break in your résumé.”
“I’m going to. Soon.”
“If you’ve got time to take a struggling designer out to
yakiniku, you could take Takao along and have these
conversations.”
That hits a nerve, and I throw my empty beer can at
Shouta. It bounces off his shoulder with a dull little tonk.
“Whoa, hey! What the hell?!”
“What’s your problem?! You’re the one shacking up with
a struggling actress without a plan!”
“Don’t change the subject!”
Shouta sounds angry. There, see? You don’t give me an
inch. Even though you came out of my body. Even though I
nursed you at my breast.
“I’m not! We’re talking about how to live a life. By the
time I was your age, I was working and raising an
elementary schooler!”
A wave of self-pity hits me, bringing tears with it.
“Yeah, that was me. Remember?”
“It sure was! You were so little and genuine, and then
out of nowhere you turned into some strange man. I don’t
even know if you’re on my side or not!”
My own words break the dam, and the tears spill over.
My head goes fuzzy, and a sweet sense of comfort spreads
through my chest. I take another gulp of shochu.
“Argh, come on, not again,” Shouta mutters. “Look,” he
says aloud, “I’m sorry, all right? You’re an adult; you can’t
break down this easy. And don’t drink so much. Go take a
bath and go to sleep.”
“Don’t wanna. I’m gonna drink more,” I say, pouring
shochu into my glass.
“Gimme a break,” Shouta’s voice says, sounding farther
away than it did.
When did it happen? I think again.
When did everybody go so far away?
When did they leave me behind?
 ***

Children grow up so fast that I can’t hope to keep up.

That’s what I think after the parent-teacher-student
conference at school. I’m conscious of how tall my son is as
he walks beside me.
“Takao, how old will you be next month?”
“Eighteen.”
That means I’ll be turning fifty-one. As I look up at the
low, ash-gray sky above the vivid yellow gingko trees along
the street, the sigh leaves my mouth in a white cloud. It
happened in a twinkling. No wonder Momoka Nakajima’s
changed, too.
After narrowly managing to stay on the register a year
and a half ago, Momoka Nakajima is currently in her third
year at university. Even now, when we pass each other at
school, she bows to me politely. Lately, I hear she’s been
enthusiastically frequenting the library so she can get into
an especially competitive seminar. My coworker Kobayashi
spends her days lecturing new employees like a veteran
now. Shouta is still dawdling in an informal live-in
relationship that won’t go anywhere (I think).
During the past year and a half, I’ve bought a new car,
since my old one was almost due for an expensive
inspection; had two gastroscopy procedures; bought two
new suits and three new pairs of shoes at shops I frequent;
and made several visits to watering holes that may or may
not have been appropriate and managed to seal several
incidents that I’ve decided never to think of again into the
depths of my memory. I broke up with Shimizu. By doing all
of this, I took the surges of emotion that welled up from
day to day, and I swaddled them in liquor and paperbacks
and old skirts, and gently buried them in the damp soil of
this city.
And now winter’s on its way again.
 With Christmas coming next month, the town is decked
out with colorful decorations and fizzing with excitement.
My son is walking next to me, but he doesn’t see any of it.
He’s skipped right over New Year’s and his high school
graduation, and he’s looking at what lies beyond them.
Italy, hmm? I think. I’ve never been there. Come to think of
it, I’ve never been overseas at all.
That’s unexpected.
I would have thought that I was the type who’d go far
away, not Takao. I read all those books when I was a child,
and I yearned so much for foreign lands. When I grew up, I
thought I was going to live in some distant country. After I
had Shouta at twenty-one, though, while I fought to handle
the pressures of daily life, time flew past in the blink of an
eye. I’ve been living in Tokyo since I was born. Nearly all of
my life has been spent within an area so small, it’d only
take you an hour to drive around the outer edges.
My son is leaping out of that circle with unnerving ease.

When I get called into the student guidance office, Mr.

Itou, my son’s homeroom teacher, seems a little
bewildered.
“Erm, you’re his mother?”
“Yes.”
“Please, have a seat.”
Oh! Did I look like his older sister? I think happily. Yay! I
considered wearing a conservative, PTA-type suit, but
instead I decided to go for it and wear a pleated above-the-
knee skirt, and it was the right choice. It’s charcoal gray,
with lace at the back, an umber-colored sash belt at the
waist, and a white blouse with a fairly large bow at the
collar. I haven’t been to a high school in a while. I’m happy
to go, but worried that I’m a little too happy. When I sit
down in one of those good old school chairs, Takao looks at
me in shock.
 “…Is that cosplay?” he whispers.
“No, it is not!” I hiss back.
“So, Ms. Akizuki.” Clearing his throat awkwardly, Mr.
Itou begins. “As I expect you’re aware, Takao says he
doesn’t intend to take the university entrance exam. He’d
like to study abroad at a university in Florence and learn
shoemaking there. He intends to fit in as much part-time
work as possible before spring, during the remainder of
high school, to save up for his school expenses. Did your
family discuss all this before he came to this conclusion?”
Wow, this really is a parent-teacher-student conference!
Ooh, it’s so exciting. I make my voice serious, and I tell
him: “Yes. My son initially brought that up quite a while
back, during his first year of high school. I was pretty
surprised, but we’ve talked it over a lot since then, and now
I’m convinced.”
Mr. Itou’s expression hardens. “With all due respect,” he
begins, not even trying to disguise that this is a lecture.
“With all due respect, neither shoemaking nor studying
abroad in Italy sounds like a very practical choice to me.
There’s no precedent for either at our school, and if he
wants to go on exchange, he should be able to find plenty
of opportunities for it while he’s at university.”
Oh, yes, I remember these kinds of teachers, I think,
feeling oddly nostalgic as I listen to the man’s deep, gym-
teacherly voice. At this point, his overzealous dedication is
charming, but back then, he would have scared me to
death. When I steal a glance at Takao, he’s looking down
with a neutral expression. My, he really is special. If I were
a student, I would have broken down just facing this tough,
tracksuited teacher.
“Ms. Akizuki. I’ve investigated this myself. Planning and
design at a manufacturer may be one thing, but in Japan,
the need for shoemakers in the industry is in decline.
Manufacturing bases have been moved completely to
developing countries in Asia, and Japan doesn’t have a
culture of bespoke shoes for individual customers. If Takao
still wants to pursue this even with that knowledge, then of
course his resolution is admirable. However, those strong
feelings are another reason why he should be able to
search for a way while attending university in Japan as
well. Studying abroad immediately after graduation,
particularly in a country where English isn’t the main
language, is a big risk. Anyone can get into a language
school, but he may not be able to qualify for a university
over there, and even if he does, he might not be able to
graduate. Even assuming he graduates, once he returns
home, he’ll have a much harder time finding a job than
other new graduates. That’s a basic statistic.”
His voice is so low, it seems to reverberate in my toes,
and Mr. Itou’s eyes go to Takao. Takao looks up.
“Akizuki. I think you should go to a Japanese university.
Just so you can leave as many possibilities open for yourself
as possible. What do you think?”
Takao opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks like he’s
slowly searching for words that he’s shut away somewhere
deep inside himself. Through the closed window, the
afterschool murmur seeps in like the smell of diluted sweat.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m wearing a school uniform again.
The texture and smell of the winter uniform’s thick navy-
blue fabric rises in my mind so clearly, it’s as if I’d put my
arms through its sleeves that morning. It’s been over thirty
years since then, and yet this world hasn’t faded the tiniest
bit. It’s startling.
“I’m very happy that my teachers and family are kind
enough to be concerned about me,” Takao begins slowly.
“As you say, shoemaking is probably a very hard field to
break into. That’s why I know I’ll never accomplish it if I
don’t try with everything I have. I don’t want to make
excuses about wanting to have it all, or avoiding risk, or
leaving possibilities open.”
Mr. Itou looks as if he wants to interrupt, but Takao
keeps going.
“I want to go to Florence because I want to work with
shoes professionally, not as a hobby. Shoes, particularly
women’s shoes, are fashion. There are clear trends, and if
you don’t follow those trends, your business won’t succeed.
Europe is the heart of both fashion and technology. Even
when it comes to raw materials, European trade fairs are
what determine the year’s trends. All the techniques and
materials involved in shoemaking are concentrated in
Florence. That means this isn’t about whether I want to go
overseas or not. Studying abroad is just necessary, plain
and simple.”

As we’re walking down the slope toward the station, it

starts to drizzle, and I take Takao into a pub that happens
to catch my eye. “Hey, wait, I’m in my school uniform,” he
protests, but I drag him in. “You’re going to Europe,
remember? This is practice. It’s fine as long as you don’t
drink.” We sit down at the end of a table in the back. I
order a Moretti, to set the mood, and get Takao a cola.
“Your teacher was pretty cute,” I tell him.
“Wha—Cute? Who was? You mean Mr. Itou?”
“He never let up. He’s genuinely worried about you.”
“…He was my homeroom teacher during my first year,
but today was the first time I’ve talked to him that much. I
don’t know him all that well.”
For a little while after that, we gaze out the window in
silence. It’s gloomy inside the pub, and the big window
facing the street looks almost like an enormous aquarium.
Beyond the glass, colorful umbrellas swim back and forth in
their unsteady paths.
I don’t think Takao’s determination would have changed
whether we had a parent-student-teacher interview or not,
I think. Even when he was little, he was the type of kid who
played with my shoes. I have quite a few pairs, for fun, and
somewhere along the way, cleaning and maintaining them
became Takao’s job. By the time he was in middle school,
he’d started to take apart the ones I didn’t wear anymore.
His interest had shifted from shape to structure. He’d use a
hair dryer and electric hot plate to remove the glue from
women’s shoes, take out the shanks, and split the heels and
then put them all back together. By the end of his second
year of high school, Takao had started to search on his own
for the course he’d take after graduation. He’d gone to
several information sessions for shoemaking schools in
Japan; he’d met and talked with actual shoemakers. He
made me introduce him to a shoe workshop I was familiar
with. The more professionals he spoke with, the firmer his
resolve to study abroad grew. He identified several Italian
language schools that were affiliated with Florentine
universities, requested materials in Italian, pored over
them, and narrowed the schools down to one. He withdrew
from the savings he’d earned and wired the money for the
entrance fees, and now he already had permission to start
school there next year. He said he was planning to go to the
language school for half a year and then take the entrance
exam for an art college. He’d buckled down and checked
every item off the list all by himself, all while going to high
school, working part-time job shifts, and studying Italian
through radio lessons.
“By the way…”
After picking up my second Moretti at the counter, I go
back to the table and sit down, asking the question that’s
just popped into my head.
“What happened to the girl with the spring shoes?”
“Huh?”
There’s a little pause, and then Takao turns red. I start
grinning.
“You know. Her. The older girl you had a crush on?”
“N-nothing’s happened, not really.”
“Still unrequited?”
 He’s clammed up, looking cross, and he won’t answer.
Hmm.
“So you still like her, huh? How about that.”
“…” He raises his cola bottle to his lips, but it’s empty.
“Did you tell her about studying abroad?”
“…Not yet.”
“Hmm. Well, can’t always have everything.”
As I tell him that, I’m remembering what he said in the
student guidance office. His older lady friend and his
dream of being a shoemaker: Neither is a simple thing, and
he may not be able to have them both. Maybe he wants to
learn to make shoes she’ll really be able to walk in this
time.
The rain lets up, and when we leave the pub, the whole
city is enveloped in a faint lemon-colored light. When I look
at the western sky, rays of evening sun are slanting through
gaps in the gray clouds.
Oh, that’s right.
I remember suddenly.
That’s right. I was like that, too. I was the same. It was
right around this season, on a day like this one. I made up
my mind, and I traveled here by myself.
It was the end of autumn, the year I turned twenty. I
went to the gynecology clinic alone, and they told me I was
pregnant with Shouta. I walked back to the station with no
idea what else to do. Cold rain was falling that day, and I
had my umbrella up. The wet gingko leaves carpeting the
asphalt muted the sensation that I was walking on the
ground at all. After a while, I suddenly realized that the
rain had stopped. I paused on the sloping road, looking
toward the brightest part of the sky. The roofs of the distant
mixed-use buildings gleamed in the light of the sunset.
Several crows were skimming around the gleaming
antennas.
I’m going to have this baby, I thought as I gazed at the
faraway light. Even if nobody approves, even if I’m all
alone, I’m going to have it. No excitement, no resolution, no
preparation—the decision was as capricious as taking a
different route for a change.
Before I knew it, all thought of avoiding risk, or leaving
possibilities open for my life, had vanished. Ever since
then, I’ve been traveling. I haven’t boarded any airplanes
or ships, but my journey continues in the seat of a city bus,
in the waiting room of a hospital, in the cafeteria at the
university, in the driver’s seat of a Japan-made minivan,
under a deserted overpass. I’ve come a very long way on
that journey.
“Mom?”
As I’m staring absently at the sky, Takao calls to me.
I look at my son, and I start walking. The light I saw on
that day is still there, even now.

Beep-beep-beep , the rice cooker announces.

“Oh, the rice is done,” Shouta says dully.
I answer with a noncommittal “Hmm” instead of
snapping back at him. I know, you don’t have to tell me.
The young woman named Rika smiles awkwardly. On the
TV, they’re showing a flower-viewing party in a park
somewhere. I can hear snippets of the easygoing banter in
my silent kitchen.
“Rika, do you want some tea?” Shouta says, trying to
smooth things over.
“Oh, no, I’m all right. Thanks, Shou,” she answers. Hmm.
“Shou,” huh? “Would you care for some tea, Mother?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
I smile at the girl brightly. She’s wearing a frilly,
feminine blouse. The color’s different, but her clothes are
very similar to mine today.
“Oh, and also,” I add to her olive-green blouse, “I’m not
your mother yet, you know.”
 Her smile freezes for a moment.
Shouta glares at me, but she promptly, cheerfully
responds, “Oh, of course that’s right, Ms. Akizuki.”
Shouta pushes his glasses up and massages the inside
corners of his eyes with his fingers, as if he’s about to lose
it.
Ding. On the table, my phone gives a pleasant chirp, and
the three of us look at it expectantly.
“Is that from Takao? What does he say?”
I look at the text. “He’s on his way home now, but it’s
going to be about an hour before he gets here.”
We all heave deep, soundless sighs.
We’re holding a party for Takao today, but the guest of
honor is running late. He went to the Italian embassy to
pick up his student visa, but apparently, a weekend at the
end of March is a much more popular time than he
expected.
Yesterday was Takao’s high school graduation ceremony.
Next month, he leaves for Italy. We started talking about
getting the family together for dinner, and then it turned
out that Rika, Shouta’s girlfriend, was also on good terms
with Takao, so she got invited as well.
This is the first time Rika and I have met. All Shouta and
I do is fight, and I didn’t want to meet my son’s lover, but
we’d probably be fine if Takao were here. We all gathered
here on that assumption—but our key figure and buffer
isn’t here yet.
“He says he wants us to get started without him, but he
doesn’t want us to drink too much.”
As I read the rest of the text, it hits me. Of course. I can
just get drunk now.
“All right, if Takao says so.” Shouta seems to have had
the same idea; he looks at me with relief.
“Sure. Let’s start off with just a little,” I say. Eagerly, we
take cans of beer out of the fridge and line them up on the
table.
 “Yes, we’ll go slow.” Rika starts putting plastic
containers she brought into the microwave.
“Cheers!” We click our cans together.

“Takao, wait, no! Don’t come in!” Shouta cries when my

second son finally gets home and opens the kitchen door.
“Oh, come on! Don’t act like I just walked in on a murder
scene.”
“She’s right, Shou, that’s rude. Eeeeee, Takao, it’s been
forever!”
“Hi, Rika.”
After greeting my girl Rika with a smile, Takao looks
from me to Shouta and back with exasperation.
“Come on, you guys, I told you not to drink too much.”
As I take another swig of the sweet potato shochu Rika
brought as a present, I protest that we’re not drinking too
much, although my words are running together.
“So anyway, Rika, back to the subject of Shouta’s first
romance. He wrote his first love letter when he was in fifth
grade.”
“Mm-hmm, mm-hmm.”
Rika’s eyes are sparkling, Shouta’s sulking and drinking
shochu nonstop, and Takao gets a cola out of the fridge and
joins us at the table.
“This boy, I swear. He gave the letter to me first to
proofread.”
“Hey, Mom, knock it off, would you?!”
“I still remember what it said. In the very first line, he
wrote, ‘Please marry me.’ I had no idea what to say about
that.”
“Yaaaaaaugh!” Shouta screams as Rika squeals.
“Guess I really did just witness a murder,” Takao mutters
with sympathy.
“But it makes you wonder, Mother,” Rika says, slurring
with utmost seriousness. “If Shou proposed as a grade
schooler, why hasn’t he said anything like that this time
around?”
“I’m gonna go buy some liquor,” Shouta murmurs, and
he slinks out of the apartment. He made a break for it, he
got away. Rika and I laugh together. Exposing all of
Shouta’s past embarrassments has made me feel much
better.
“Did Shou and Takao put these stickers here?”
Rika goes to stand in the kitchen with Takao and looks at
the line of sticker remnants on the pillar. It’s true that the
faded stickers are hard to miss, stuck on in layers like that.
Most of the pictures have peeled off, but some of them still
have hearts or fruit on them. Rika’s wearing an apron, and
as I gaze at her back, I wonder if having a daughter would
have been like this.
“Sure did. Takao, do you remember?”
“A little.” Takao’s chopping something, and he doesn’t
turn around. “I took over from Shouta.”
“‘Took over’?”
“When Mom made dinner after she came home from
work, one of us would put up a reward sticker for doing a
good job.”
“Wow, you two were adorable!”
“I’m positive Shouta’s forgotten about it, though.” I
laugh. “He can’t remember anything.” As Rika set little
bowls with pickled shellfish and seasonal vegetables down
on the table, I tell her, “But I remember it like it was
yesterday. I can still hear their little voices.”
Kaclunk. We hear the steel door open, and Shouta comes
back, carrying shopping bags in both hands. As he puts
groceries and beer away in the fridge, he talks cheerfully
with Rika. Geez! He bounced back quick.
“Oh, right, we’ve got another guest on the way,” Shouta
tells me, grinning.
“Huh? He’s really coming?” Takao says with surprise.
“Yeah,” Shouta replies. “I gave him a call, and he said
he’d love to come if it wasn’t going to cause us trouble. He
sounded super nervous.”
“A guest? Who?”
Rika and I both ask the question at the same time.
“Who?”
“Who do you think?” Shouta asks, drawing out the
suspense.
Takao is smirking.
I can’t even guess.
“Ta-daaaah! It’s Shimizu!”
Shouta sounds incredibly proud of himself for pulling
one over on me. Hmm? Shimizu? Who’s that? …What?!
“Huh?! Shimizu?! What? Why? Wait, how did you two
know his number?”
“He gave it to us back when you ran away from home.”
“But we broke up!”
“I know you did. You wouldn’t stop talking about it—
which means you couldn’t get him out of your head.”
Takao is explaining to Rika, “He’s a graphic designer my
mom dated; he’s twelve years younger than she is.”
“What?! Twelve years?!” Rika yelps.
“Hey! You over there! I never said you could talk about
this!”
“Now, now. I bet that sobered you up, didn’t it?” Shouta
is really getting a kick out of this.
It sure did. Shouta’s revenge was a success. Argh… I
need to go fix my makeup.
“Oh? Mother, where are you going?” Rika calls as I’m
about to leave the kitchen.
“My makeup,” I say, flustered.
Shouta laughs. “He won’t be here that soon. Calm down
and have a seat. We’re celebrating Takao, right? Let’s drink
to him first.”
“I think it’s a little late for that,” Takao says, looking
disgusted. “You just want another excuse to drink, right?”
“Let’s start over,” Rika chirps, setting out a variety of
different types of alcohol on the table. “What’ll it be,
Takao?”
“Ginger ale, please.”
The four of us take our places at the table. I pick up a
glass of shochu, Shouta takes a can of beer, Rika raises a
glass of white wine. “Congratulations!”
We drink a toast with our mismatched beverages, and I
remember the view of those antennas in the light. That
light never fades. That single moment illuminates my path
forever.
“—Thanks. To a new journey,” my younger son says,
filled with determination.
 Iwa bashiru / tarumi no ue no / sawarabi no / moeizuru
haru ni / nari ni keru kamo
(Man’yoshu volume 8:1418) Translation: New bracken
shoots / sprout by the edge / of the waterfall / tumbling
over the rocks: / spring has come Context: A joyful poem by
Prince Shiki, written when he sensed the coming of spring
in the young bracken ferns.
 EPILOGUE

When We Can Walk Farther.

—Takao Akizuki and Yukari Yukino
It occurs to her that it’s been four and a half years since
her last visit to Tokyo.
As she gazes out at the early-morning ocean from the
window of the Yosan Line train, Yukari Yukino realizes she
hasn’t gone even once since she went home.
Ponderous cumulus clouds hang low over the ocean,
almost as if enormous fish are covering the sky, and the
scale of it thrills her. Yukino’s eyes trace the subtle gray
gradations on their landward-facing bellies, following them
out to sea. She can’t tell the color of the offshore clouds
from that of the little islands that float on the sea. Under
that hidden morning sky, the ocean seems like a vast
sandbox. It’s so perfectly still, it really doesn’t look like
water. She imagines herself running across that sandbox
with another little thrill: Look at how big it is! The ocean is
never the same two days in a row.
I wonder if the landscape can shape human hearts,
Yukino thinks, out of nowhere. The thought reminds her of
that other view, four and a half years ago, on the
September day when she left Tokyo and returned to her
hometown. Of what she saw from the train she took from
Matsuyama Airport to her own area, Imabari.
As the sun fell lower and lower, more and more lights
had come on in the houses. She caught glimpses of figures
in the kitchens, preparing dinner. The lights were yellow
and warm, but she was surprised at how far they were from
one another. The physical distances between houses,
between people, were much greater than they were in
Tokyo. This is loneliness in its purest form, Yukino thought.
It was clearest when the sun went down, making you feel
small and uncertain. That’s why people seek out others,
Yukino thought, feeling as if she’d realized something
important.
 After she’d been home for about a month, Yukino had
found a position as a provisional teacher at a private high
school in the city. She worked there for two and a half
years. At the same time, she took the prefecture’s teacher
employment exam. Now she was working as a classics
teacher at a public high school on a small island. She lived
at home with her parents, who were getting older little by
little, and she drove a little domestic car to work every
morning over a high, enormous suspension bridge.
At first, the black kites languidly wheeling over the
ocean from the coast road had given her a curious feeling,
but now the days she’d spent working in Tokyo seemed
stranger and more distant.
A heavy, metallic clanking envelops the train car, and
Yukino lifts her head. The express is crossing the Great
Seto Bridge. The steel pillars stream past, and shining
clouds drift far beyond them, hiding the morning sun
behind them. The ocean beneath those clouds shines, too,
like a great band of light.
My heart’s pounding, Yukino thinks.
I’m nervous. I decided to go by train because I was
afraid of getting there too soon…but maybe that wasn’t the
right decision. Are these nerves going to last another four
hours? Will I be able to hold myself together until I arrive?
Until I reach that garden of light…

***

According to his research, the cheapest flight to Tokyo

went through Finland.
A flight to Osaka had been canceled due to a structural
issue or something like that, so Takao Akizuki is seeing
quite a lot of Japanese people in the lobby of the Helsinki-
Vantaa International Airport. His ears catch the sound of
Japanese frequently, which just makes him more tense. No
matter where he goes in the Oltrarno district of Florence,
where he’s lived for two years, he’s almost never seen
anyone Japanese. For the first two months or so, the
loneliness was crushing, but it wasn’t long before he
started to find it pleasant. It was a firm reminder that he
wasn’t anybody yet, that he didn’t belong to anything, that
he was just en route. His own inexperience had irritated
him so much in Tokyo, but in Florence, it hadn’t bothered
him a bit. Being confronted with the techniques of so many
artisans had shown him keenly, deeply, that his lack of
experience was only natural. Now, Takao knows he’s on the
path that will lead him to them.
There are still three hours left until his flight to Narita.
He goes into a small café and bar in the airport and orders
a half pint of Strongbow, hoping a drink will help him relax.
Instead of a half pint, the waiter brings him a one-pint glass
that’s about 70 percent full. Bad service. Still, more is
better. He’ll drink until it really hits him and sleep on the
plane. He’s still more than half a day from Tokyo; if he
stays this tense the whole time, he won’t last.
For the two years until he graduated from high school,
he exchanged occasional letters with her. Asking for her e-
mail address seemed overly familiar, so he never did.
The first letter had come from her. She’d written that she
was teaching at a private high school. Beside the last line,
I’ll write again, she’d drawn a small shoe. Takao was
especially glad to hear she’d become a teacher again, and
her support of his shoemaking made him truly happy. When
he told her he’d be studying abroad in Italy, he took the
plunge and wrote his own e-mail address in the same letter.
The next letter he received was an e-mail, after he arrived
in Florence. Takao kept exchanging e-mails with her, once
every two months or so. They sent each other brief reports
on what they’d been up to. They both carefully avoided
writing about anything too personal, such as whether
either had a lover or not. That said, Takao was so busy with
his studies and daily life that he didn’t have much of a
personal life to report.
For his next drink, he orders a pint of Peroni, and what
he gets is a glass that’s 80 percent full. Takao smiles
weakly and starts in on it. He advances the hands on his
Diesel watch (a farewell gift from his brother) by seven
hours, in hopes of adjusting little by little.
I don’t know whether she has a lover now, or if she’s
married, or anything like that. As he drinks his beer and
gazes absently at his watch, Takao thinks. Even if she is
single, he suspects she’s probably gotten a few proposals.
After all, if I’m twenty—it means she’s thirty-two.
It’s okay, though. I don’t mind whether she’s single or
not. You can’t turn back time. I have something more
important this time—I’m going to fulfill the promise I made
her. I don’t know whether she thinks of what happened
back then as a promise or not. I don’t even know if she
remembers it. To me, though, it was a promise.
In that garden of light, almost five years ago, I touched
Ms. Yukino’s foot.
And I did it so I could make her a pair of shoes.

***

“I’m making a pair of shoes right now.”

I remember what Akizuki told me in that arbor,
surrounded by shining rain. “I haven’t decided who they’re
for, but they’re women’s shoes,” he said, and he traced the
shape of my foot onto paper.
I don’t know whether he remembers it or not, but to me,
that was a promise. Someday, when he’s a real shoemaker,
I’d like to order shoes from him. Whatever Akizuki makes
will be like our hearts back then given shape.
“Next stop, Nagoyaaaa. Now arriving at Nagoya.”
The conductor’s laid-back voice echoes from the speaker.
Oh no, I’m already in East Japan! She’s emptied three cans
of beer, but they’ve only made her more nervous. Through
the window of the bullet train, a line of steel towers
stretching into the distance streams past smoothly, like a
perspective exercise in an art class. The May sky is solid
gray.
The girl selling onboard snacks and drinks is
approaching. Yukino considers whether she should buy a
little more beer.

***

When he disembarks from the Narita Express at Shinjuku

Station, a light rain is falling.
Tokyo’s May humidity brings so many memories with it,
and Takao sucks in a deep breath on the platform. Abruptly,
he remembers taking a deep breath just like this when he
stepped off crowded trains in high school.
He’s spent two years working as hard as he can in
Florence, and before he knew it, he was able to get by in
Italian. Although he’s still a student, he’s allowed to work
as a sort of assistant at one of his favorite shoe workshops.
When he decided to return home for a visit, he
summoned his courage to let Yukino know, and she replied
that she’d be in Tokyo to run an errand at around that time.
And so Takao’s goal for the past three months has been to
finish those shoes before he goes home.
Takao pushes through the ticket gate, then deposits his
suitcase in a coin locker. Carrying only his backpack, he
visits a kiosk and buys a vinyl umbrella. The clerk who
helps him is so polite that it startles him. The design on the
Japanese yen that he takes out of his wallet looks very
strange to him.

***
She disembarks from the Sobu Line train at Sendagaya
Station.
Leaving her small wheeled carry-on bag in a coin locker,
she opens her madder-red folding umbrella and leaves the
station. Her umbrella turns into a surround-sound speaker,
bringing the noise of rain to her ears. The sound tells her
that the rain has grown heavier.
I ended up drinking a little too much. I need to sober up,
she thinks, wandering into the café next to the station as if
she still went there every day. “Will this be for here or to
go?” asks the cashier.
“Oh, to go, please,” she answers. Then she adds, “Um,
two of them.”

***

Once he crosses the bridge in the Japanese garden, the

sound of the rain changes slightly.
The sound of raindrops rustling the leaves is louder than
the sound of rain on water. The clear twitter of a mountain
white-eye twines around the squelch of his wing-tip boots,
shoes he’s made for himself. He can see the surface of the
water beyond the black pines, reflecting the pink of the
azaleas, the red bark of the umbrella pines, the dazzling
green of maple leaves.
Takao’s backpack holds shoes for her. Small pumps with
two-and-a-half-inch heels. The toes are pastel pink, the
bodies a near-white flesh tone, and the heels lemon yellow,
as if they’ve been exposed to the sun. The long straps to
wind around her ankles have cutouts shaped like maple
leaves sewn to the ends. These are shoes that will let her
walk for a long time.
Somewhere, a large-billed crow gives one assertive call,
and from the far reaches of the sky, distant thunder
rumbles softly.
 The thunder whispers.
The words rise to Takao’s lips, and he knows something
is about to happen.
Behind the curtain of wet maple leaves, the arbor comes
into view. Someone is sitting inside. Breathing in the scent
of the rain to calm himself, Takao goes nearer. The clouds
of leaves fall behind him, revealing the whole structure.
The figure is a woman in a pale-green skirt.
Takao stops in his tracks.
She has a coffee cup raised to her lips, and her soft hair
is trimmed evenly above her shoulders. In a gentle motion,
she looks at him.
Yukino’s tense, near-tearful expression slowly dissolves
into a smile, and Takao watches her.
Like the sun coming out after the rain.
 AFTERWORD

I’ve always had an unrequited love for novels.

And not only novels. Manga and movies and animation,
and real-life scenery, too. I love them, but they aren’t all
that interested in me. I suppose I’m technically too grown
up to be thinking about something so beyond my control,
but I just can’t shake the feeling.
I work as an animation director, so at the very least, I
have the opportunity to tell animation, “Look how much I
love you.” However, it doesn’t work that way with novels.
The best I can do is page through a paperback now and
then in my spare time, on trains or while I’m waiting for
rendering (since in digital animation, it takes quite a while
to compile the footage on computers), and think, in
frustrated awe, How can novels be this fascinating?
So you can imagine my delight when Da Vinci Magazine
gave me the opportunity to serialize The Garden of Words
as a novel. The writing itself was fun; I could freely do so
many things that were difficult or impossible to do in
animation… For example, I could write the sentence, “She
gives a smile like a lost child.” Whenever I did something
like that, I’d think (to my animation-director self), Check
that out! Check that out; you’d have a hard time showing
that visually, wouldn’t you! Can the actress make her
expression sufficiently like that of “a lost child”? Can the
animators create a drawing that will bring the words like a
lost child to the mind of every viewer? It’s impossible. No
doubt the anxiety would be clear, but it would be incredibly
difficult to create a visual that would express that simile:
like a lost child. Or I’d write, “I could hear the after-school
chatter in the halls beyond the door, like the faint noise
from somebody else’s headphones.” I’d grin and think to
my visual side, You could never do this. Audiences won’t
associate the sounds of a classroom environment with
sound bleed from headphones.
Writing brought it home to me that the pleasure of
novels is in the strings of letters themselves. Now that I’m
looking back over it, I realize that I was the only one so
excited about it, but it was still an enjoyable time for me.

I’m backtracking a bit, but this book is the novelization

of a 2013 animated film of the same name, which I
directed. Meaning I wrote the novel for a movie I directed
myself. However, the original movie was a forty-six-minute,
midlength feature film shown only from the perspectives of
Takao and Yukino. In contrast, in the novel, I increased the
number of narrators, boosting the amount of content until a
film version would have run over two hours, and
reassembled it. I tried to write it in such a way that both
people who’d seen the original film and people who hadn’t
would be able to enjoy it.

I was excited to tackle the work of writing, but naturally,

the fun didn’t last. I soon realized that visuals are an
inevitably superior, and more fitting, means of expression.
For example, take things like “atmosphere.” Say I’m
depicting a cityscape at night. I layer music that has a tinge
of sadness over it. A light will go on in a window
somewhere, or be abruptly extinguished—the timing
doesn’t really matter. That’s all it takes for a film to envelop
an audience in a particular sense—atmosphere is the only
word I have for it. Long story short, these atmospherics are
the emotions given off by human activity, and a film can
evoke them with no more than a light in a window. How do
you create the equivalent of that in a novel? Questions like
that drove me nuts.
For the sake of brevity, I won’t write about it in detail,
but there are many other types of metaphors that can be
portrayed more eloquently with visuals. Sometimes a single
cut of an animated ring of ripples can convey emotion that
it wouldn’t be possible to communicate even with several
pages of writing.
In addition, ultimately, technical issues aside, I kept
worrying about the extremely natural question of what to
write. By the time I was finished, all I could think was,
Wow, novels and novelists are something else. I was also a
bit disappointed to find that I was as far from reaching
their level as ever.

In the end, what I gained from writing a book was an

even deeper unrequited love for novels and animation. But
I had never been hoping for a mutual relationship in the
first place. There may even have been something similar in
Takao’s feelings for Yukino. Come to think of it, all the
characters in this book have some sort of unrequited love,
and I am again reminded that this sort of human emotion
was what I wanted to show. The fabric of this world is
woven from the feelings of longing for someone, for
something, that we have in isolation. That is what I wanted
to depict in this book.
A tale of “lonely sorrow,” far older than “love.”
That was the tagline for the film version of this book. In
the Man’yoshu, more than thirteen centuries ago, the word
for “love” was written with the characters lonely sorrow,
and even today, I’m sure there are many people for whom
the use of those characters rings true.

In the process of writing this book, I spoke with all sorts

of people. Beginning with Professor Kaoru Kurasumi, who
chose the Man’yoshu poems that appear in the book, I
talked to shoemakers, high school and university teachers,
current high school students, people working in sales for
manufacturing companies, and many, many others. Your
stories all gave the book added depth, and I’m profoundly
grateful.
In addition, I’d like to express particular gratitude to
Chiharu Ochiai, whose deep love and insight have
supported this work from the film onward.

I was working on this book while the movie The Garden

of Words was in theaters, and so I ended up writing most of
the manuscript at destinations I was visiting for work. It
doesn’t have much to do with the content, but looking back,
I wrote in quite a few places, so I’ll list them here for fun:
America, Shanghai, South Korea, Sri Lanka, Taiwan,
Russia, Scotland, France, and Vietnam. In most of these, I
was attending film festivals and animation events, while I
visited some of them to look for locations for other projects,
but the hotel stays at each destination and the plane trips
there and back served as valuable writing time. In addition,
when I wrote the epilogue, I was on a train crossing the
Seto Inland Sea between Honshu and Shikoku myself. The
views I saw from the windows may have lent some color to
the text.

Thank you very much for picking up this book, and for
reading it.

February 2014, Makoto Shinkai

 ESSAY

NORIKO KANDA

Novels are like mean-spirited older lovers—they see

straight through to our adoration for them, but won’t show
us everything about themselves. All too often, you think
you’ve come up with a marvelous, original tale only to find
that someone’s actually written it already.
There are some stories, great stories, that feel as if they
incorporate our thoughts and even the experiences we’re
living through now. There’s no need to despair, though;
using part of one of these great stories as a foundation for
something new is a very respectable way to create a novel.
It’s been said that the writer Mieko Kanai thinks of writing
a novel as obsessively covering those foundations in
graffiti, but I think that the challenge of novel writing may
lie in looking for fascinating ways to fill in the gaps of the
foundation.

The novel The Garden of Words was written by animated

film director Makoto Shinkai, and it uses a film he himself
produced and directed as its foundation. The basic
storyline—Takao, a high school student who aspires to be a
shoemaker, meets the enigmatic Yukino in a rainy park—
unfolds as it did before, but the author himself has included
more details regarding how he went about filling in the
gaps of that foundation. Since the story is told from the
perspectives of various characters, readers learn about
more than Takao’s and Yukino’s pasts and feelings. We also
have the worries and conflicts of the older brother, Shouta,
whom we only glimpse in the anime and who is presented
there as a confident, relaxed adult; the hidden relationship
between the stern-faced, tracksuited Mr. Itou and Yukino;
the startling past of Shouko Aizawa, whose animated
version looks like nothing more than a bratty, popular girl;
and the unexpected occupation and life history of Takao’s
artificially youthful, rather childlike mother. By filling in
their backgrounds, he gives depth to the characters and
the story.
However, despite the detail of these depictions, they’re
exquisitely restrained. If a novel grows too wordy, it turns
into exposition and limits the reader’s imagination. (Works
like this one in particular, where the author has clear
images in his mind, tend to go too far in that direction.)
Like its taciturn protagonists, though, this story is written
without telling too much, instead inspiring the imagination.
For example, what triggered the protagonist Takao’s
interest in shoes is casually hinted at through his
relationship with his mother. Her many shoes are the
weapons of a mother who wants to continue her life as a
woman; in other words, they’re a way to protect herself.
That being the case, I’d like you to pick up on the subtle
implication of the gentle colors of the pumps Takao means
to give Yukino—they are meant to protect her, and to serve
as a symbol of the time they spent together.
The characters’ backgrounds aren’t all that gets filled in.
The settings—the streets of Tokyo and the Japanese garden
—are also delicately rendered like characters in the story
themselves. The beauty of the scenes in that light-filled
garden amid its rustling greenery are beyond description.
In the novel, the characters are written in depth to fill in
the gaps in its foundation. However, even if you view the
images that form the original foundation (i.e., the movie)
after you read the book, I doubt they’ll seem shallow to
you. The Garden of Words, at forty-six minutes, is on the
short side for an animated film, and yet it’s clear how deftly
it has skimmed off the transparent, beautiful, clear layer at
the very top of the story.

The novel has one more foundation: the Man’yoshu. This

is, of course, Japan’s oldest collection of poetry, and its role
in this book is to run delicate threads of meaning through
the entire story.
As you’ve seen, one Man’yoshu poem is given at the
close of every chapter to symbolize the current of the story
or the emotions of a character. As you read them, you
develop a solid sense of the characteristics of that era’s
poetry. The conditions and emotions of that time are
distilled into poems in a frank, unaffected way. While they
are generally written in the archaic language of their era, if
you read through them, it isn’t that difficult to grasp their
meaning. Unlike the poems of later years, which gave full
play to pivot words, inversion, and allusions to older poems,
these chains of words flow powerfully from top to bottom,
straight down. Putting them at the ends of the chapters
generates a driving force to carry the story forward.
In the scene where Takao and Yukino first meet, Yukino
offhandedly recites a poem to him, as if she’s quietly saying
it to the sky: “The thunder whispers, / and clouds darken
the sky. / If rain should fall, / would you stay with me?” This
is a type of love poem known as a soumon-ka. Soumon is an
old word that means to ask how the other person is feeling,
and these poems were used as romantic gestures between
men and women. One lover would send a poem to the other,
and the recipient would respond with a poem of their own.
There are many examples of these exchanges in the
Man’yoshu. This serves as a hint about Yukino’s occupation.
However, the shape of the “response” to this poem shows
the trajectory of the boy’s feelings for this mysterious adult
woman, even though he thinks of himself as nothing more
than a fifteen-year-old kid. Do note the gravitational pull of
this soumon poem, which has been repeated over and over
again since antiquity.
The life of the woman known as Nukata no Ookimi, who
wrote the poem “As I cross the murasaki field, / shining
madder red, / the forbidden land, / will its guard not see
you / wave your sleeve at me?” is also reflected in this story
in a pronounced way. Nukata no Ookimi was born into an
imperial family and became the wife of Prince Ooama (later
Emperor Tenmu). However, she also had the favor of Prince
Naka no Ooe (later Emperor Tenji), Prince Ooama’s older
brother, and it’s said that she wrote this poem on an
occasion when the two men ran into each other.
Later generations have been fascinated by the personal
magnetism of Nukata no Ookimi. While there are in-depth
theories that say otherwise, she described a love triangle
with two members of the imperial family, not to mention
two emperors who would leave their names in history, in
such generous, unconstrained terms. Many fictional works
have been written about her, beginning with the one that
makes an appearance in this novel, Yasushi Inoue’s Lady
Nukata no Ookimi. Ms. Hinako, the teacher who had such a
big influence on Yukino’s adolescence, says that “everybody
has their quirks.” That remark may be based in this type of
love, which can be found in the Man’yoshu. In addition, one
phrase in the poem—“shining madder red”—links to the red
umbrella Yukino uses on rainy days.
With the Man’yoshu as a foundation, we have these rich
images that transcend time and space, and the message
comes to the fore that people remain the same even after a
thousand years. And if they don’t change in a thousand
years, they certainly can’t change in ten. Yukino’s
experience of idolizing Ms. Hinako and losing her is
repeated when she herself is idolized and discarded by
Shouko Aizawa, while Reimi Akizuki is startled to discover
the same determination she herself had thirty years ago in
her son Takao. This may be a bittersweet, foolish thing, and
yet it makes you think that the hopelessly heartrending,
endearing sight of people living their lives will be just
about the same a thousand years in the future, in a society
where civilization has advanced even further.

I’d also like to touch on the wonderful writing style

that’s completely unique to Makoto Shinkai the writer. If I
were to describe it briefly, it would be “the sensation of
floating.” The perspectives he writes sometimes rise lightly,
taking a bird’s-eye view, and these moments create an
ephemeral, beautiful mismatch that lends a captivating
sparkle to the text.
For example, take the view down over the city from the
top of a tall building. The cluster of buildings seen in a
dream that one is gliding through as a bird, or a view that
one gazes at with the sensation that one is underwater.
This drifting sensation isn’t just a spatial phenomenon; it
occurs with time as well. A tale is told from the viewpoint
of a girl who, for a moment, takes another look at it from
her current perspective. This may be a point of view the
author cultivated through his work in animation, but when
the technique is used with the written word, it leaves a
rather vivid impression.
The narration in chapter 9 deserves special mention.
This part is told in parallel from Yukino’s and Takao’s
perspectives, and the writer doesn’t simply change
narrators. Instead, he tries something rather experimental.
In the gaps in their conversation, internal statements made
in first person and other sentences written in third person
mingle together, seamlessly; the two perspectives switch
with each other at incredible speed, and he also changes
the spacing between paragraph breaks, showing
“indescribable” thoughts striking against each other. The
sensation is dazzling and dizzying, as if you’re looking at
scattered reflections of light.
It feels as though there’s another, transparent
foundation layered over the foundations of the storyline
and backgrounds and classical literature. That transparent
foundation skillfully links the words and backgrounds, sets
the perspective floating, and diffusely reflects the light.
As if several foundations have been layered, then flipped
through like the pages of a book, the story begins to move.

(Book reviewer)
Thank you for buying this ebook, published by
Yen On.

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