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Part 2 – Full Moon

Eriko died late in the autumn.

A crazy man became obsessed with her and killed her. He had spotted her on the street and liked what he saw; when he followed her he discovered that the place where she worked was a gay bar. Shocked to find out that this beautiful woman was a man, he began writing her long letters and hanging around the bar. The more persistent he was, the colder Eriko and the people at the club became. One night, screaming that he had been made a fool of, he lunged at her with a knife. Eriko, wounded, grabbed a barbell off the bar—it was part of the club’s decor—with both hands and beat him to death.

“There!” she said. “Self-defense, that makes us even.” Those were her last words.

I didn’t learn of this until winter. It was a while before Yuichi finally phoned to let me know.

“She died fighting,” Yuichi said without preamble. It was one o’clock in the morning. I jumped out of bed in the dark at the ring of the telephone and grabbed the receiver. I had no idea what he was talking about. In my sleepy brain I pictured a scene from a war movie.

“Yuichi? What? What are you talking about?”

After a long silence he said, “My mother . . . or, uh, father, I should say, was killed.”

I didn’t understand; nothing was getting through. I was too stunned to speak. As if reluctant to talk about it, he began to tell me about Eriko’s death, little by little.

He spoke haltingly, but with each word the tale became more incredible. I stared into space. For a moment the receiver seemed miles away.

“When . . . did it happen? Recently?” I asked, though I had no idea where my own voice was coming from or what I was saying.

“No. It was a while back. Her friends at the club gave her a small funeral. I’m sorry. Somehow . . . somehow I just couldn’t bring myself to call you.”

I felt like my insides had been gouged out. And now she is no longer here. She isn’t anywhere anymore.

“Forgive me, please forgive me,” Yuichi kept repeating.

The telephone wasn’t enough. I couldn’t see him. Did he want to cry, did he want to laugh hysterically, did he want to have a long talk, did he want to be left alone? I couldn’t tell.

“Yuichi, I’m coming over right now. Is that okay? I want to talk to you and I want to see your face when I talk to you.”

“Sure. I’ll drive you home so you won’t have to worry about getting back in the middle of the night.” Of course he had agreed without giving me a clue as to his emotional state.

“See you soon,” I said, and hung up.

When was it that Eriko and I last saw each other? Had we parted laughing? My head was spinning. It was early in the fall when I left the university once and for all and got a job as an assistant in a cooking school. Was that the last time I had seen her, the day I moved out? Eriko had cried a little: “You’re still going to be in the neighborhood—you’ll come back and see us on weekends, won’t you?” No, no, that wasn’t it. I saw her near the end of last month. Yes, at the all-night minimart.

It was the middle of the night, and I couldn’t sleep. I had gone to the store to get a pudding cup, and there was Eriko, just off work, standing in the doorway with the “girls” from the club, drinking coffee out of paper cups and eating fish balls in broth. I called out, “Eriko-san!”

She took my hand and said, “My goodness, Mikage, you’ve gotten so thin since you left our house!” She laughed. She was wearing a blue dress.

On my way out with the pudding, I saw her, cup in hand, her eyes half-closed, watching the city glitter in the darkness. I said, teasing, “Eriko, you’re looking a little masculine tonight!” She flashed me a big smile and said, “Poor me! I have a smart-ass for a daughter. I wonder if she’s hitting puberty?” I answered that I was beyond that, thank you, and all the girls laughed. She asked me to come and visit soon, and I said I would. We parted smiling. That was the last time.

How long did it take me to put together an overnight bag? I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Opening and closing drawers, checking in the bathroom, breaking a vase, mopping it up. I covered the entire apartment several times over in total confusion. I smiled a little at how typical it was that I should still be empty-handed after all that frenzied activity. You have to calm down, I thought, and closed my eyes.

At last I stuffed a toothbrush and towel into the bag and, after double-checking that the gas was off and the answering machine on, I stumbled out of the apartment.

When I regained enough composure to realize where I was, I found I was walking up the wintry street toward the Tanabes’ apartment building. As I walked along under the starry sky, my keys jingling, the tears began to flow one after the other. The street, my footsteps, the quiet buildings, everything seemed warped. My breath became painfully blocked; I felt like I was choking. My eyes were stung by the lashing wind, and I began to feel colder and colder.

Things that my eyes normally take in—telephone poles, street lights, parked cars, the black sky—I could now barely make out. There was a strange beauty to their distortion. Everything came zooming in at me. I felt powerless to stop the energy from rushing out of my body; it seemed to dissipate with a hissing sound into the darkness.

When my parents died I was still a child. When my grandfather died, I had a boyfriend. When my grandmother died I was left all alone. But never had I felt so alone as I did now.

From the bottom of my heart, I wanted to give up; I wanted to give up on living. There was no denying that tomorrow would come, and the day after tomorrow, and so next week, too. I never thought it would be this hard, but I would go on living in the midst of a gloomy depression, and that made me feel sick to the depths of my soul. In spite of the tempest raging within me, I walked the night path calmly.

I wanted it to end, and quickly, but for now I would go see Yuichi. Hear everything he had to say, in detail. But what good would that do? What could come of it? It was not a question of hoping for anything. It would mean being flooded with an even more gigantic despair. Utterly devoid of hope, I rang the doorbell. In my confusion I had run up the stairs all the way to the tenth floor before I even realized it, and I was panting.

I listened to the familiar rhythm of his footsteps approaching the door. When I was living there I had often gone out and forgotten my key—I don’t know how many times I had rung that doorbell in the middle of the night. Yuichi would get out of bed and come to the door, and the sound of the chain would echo in the silent hallway the way it did now.

“Hi.” A somewhat thinner Yuichi greeted me.

“It’s been a long time,” I said, unable to repress a big smile. In spite of myself I was glad. In the inner recesses of my heart I was unabashedly happy to see him.

He just stood there, gaping. “May I come in?” I asked. He smiled weakly and said, as if recovering himself, “Sure, of course. I was . . . I um . . . I was expecting you to be incredibly mad at me. Sorry. Please come in.”

“How could I be mad? You should know me better than that.”

Yuichi said, “Right,” trying to show me his old grin. I smiled back at him and took off my shoes in the entryway.

At first I was strangely ill at ease in this apartment where I had lived until just a little while ago, and I was seized with nostalgia. But I sank into the sofa and soon became reacclimated to its smells. Yuichi brought me coffee.

“It feels like ages since I’ve been here.”

“It does, doesn’t it? You must have been pretty busy. How’s your job? Is it fun?” asked Yuichi politely.

“Yes, right now everything I do is fun, you know? Even peeling potatoes. I’m still in that phase,” I answered, smiling. Then, putting down his cup, Yuichi started to talk.

“Tonight, for the first time, my brain started working again, and I realized that I had to tell you. So I called.”

I leaned forward attentively, looking into his eyes.

“Up to the funeral, I couldn’t take in what had happened. My mind was blank; in my eyes everything was dark. I’d never lived with anyone but Eriko. She was my mother, my father. Because she was always just Eriko, I never had to think about it; there were so many things to do every day that I just kept barrelling along without worrying about it. That’s how things were. And then, wow! At the funeral . . . It was so like her, not to die in some normal way. Even the murderer’s wife and kids showed up. The girls from the club went nuts, and had I not behaved in a way befitting an eldest son it would have been complete chaos. You’ve been on my mind the whole time. That’s the truth. All the time. But somehow I just couldn’t call you. I was afraid that telling you would make it all real. I mean, to have my mother, my father, die that way meant I was left all alone. I couldn’t tell you, even though I knew that you two were close. I was confused, out of my mind.” Yuichi was staring at the cup in his hand.

I looked intently at his face, so beaten down by it all, and this is what came out of my mouth: “For some reason there’s always death around us. My parents, my grandfather, my grandmother . . . your real mother, even Eriko. My god—in this gigantic universe there can’t be a pair like us. The fact that we’re friends is amazing. All this death . . . all this death.”

“Really.” Yuichi smiled. “Maybe we should go into business. Our clients could pay us to move in with people they want dead. We’ll call ourselves destruction workers.”

His sadly cheerful face radiated a dim glow. We moved deeper into the dead of night. I turned around to look out the window at the flickering lights below. The city was fringed with tiny points of brightness, and the lines of cars were like a phosphorescent river flowing through the darkness.

“So I’ve become an orphan,” said Yuichi.

“That goes double for me. Not that I’m bragging about it,” I said, laughing, and suddenly tears began to stream down Yuichi’s cheeks.

“I really needed you to make me laugh,” he said, rubbing his eyes with his arm, “so much I couldn’t stand it anymore.”

I reached out and took his face in both hands. “Thank you for calling me,” I said softly.

We decided that I should have Eriko’s favorite red sweater. I recalled the evening when I had tried it on, and she had said, “God, how it pains me! Expensive as it was, it looks much better on you.”

Then Yuichi went to Eriko’s dresser drawer and pulled out her amazingly lengthy “will.” After handing it to me, he bid me goodnight and went to his room. I read:

Yuichi,

I feel very odd writing a letter to my own child. But because lately I’ve been feeling that somehow I might be in danger, I’m writing you this on the one chance in a million that something might happen to me. No, just kidding. One of these days we’ll read this together and laugh.

Yuichi, think about what I’m about to say. If I should die, you will be left all alone. But you have Mikage, don’t you? I’m not joking about that girl. We have no relatives. When I married your mother, her parents cut off relations entirely. And then, when I became a woman, they cursed me. So I’m asking you, DON’T, whatever you do, DO NOT contact them, ever. Do you understand me?

Yes, Yuichi, in this world there are all kinds of people. There are people who choose to live their lives in filth; this is hard for me to understand. People who purposely do abhorrent things, just for the attention it draws to them, until they themselves are trapped. I cannot understand it, and no matter how much they suffer I cannot feel pity for them. But I have cheerfully chosen to make my body my fortune. I am beautiful! I am dazzling! If people I don’t care for are attracted to me, I accept it as the wages of beauty. So, if I should be killed, it will be an accident. Don’t get any strange ideas. Believe in the me that you knew.

Just this once I wanted to write using men’s language, and I’ve really tried. But it’s funny—I get embarrassed and the pen won’t go. I guess I thought that even though I’ve lived all these years as a woman, somewhere inside me was my male self, that I’ve been playing a role all these years. But I find that I’m body and soul a woman. A mother in name and in fact. I have to laugh.

I have loved my life. My years as a man, my years married to your mother, and after she died, becoming and living as a woman, watching you grow up, living together so happily, and—oh! taking Mikage in!! That was the most fun of all, wasn’t it? I yearn to see her again. She, too, is a very precious child of mine.

Sentimental of me, isn’t it?

Please tell her I said hi. And tell her to stop bleaching the hair on her legs in front of boys. It’s indecent. Don’t you think so?

You’ll find enclosed the papers detailing all my assets. I know you can’t make heads or tails of all that legalese. Call the lawyer, okay? In any case, I’ve left everything to you except the club. Isn’t it great being an only child?

XXX

Eriko

When I finished reading I carefully refolded the letter. The smell of Eriko’s favorite perfume tugged at my heart. This, too, will disappear after the letter is opened a few more times, I thought. That was hardest of all.

I stretched out on the sofa that had been my bed when I lived here, feeling a nostalgia so sharp it was painful. Night was just as it had been—here I was in the same room, the silhouettes of the plants in front of the terrace window looking down over the city.

Still, no matter how late I waited up, she would not come back.

Just before dawn: the sound of humming and high-heeled shoes drawing nearer, the key in the door. After the club closed she would come home a little tipsy, and because she made a lot of noise, I would wake up, sleepy-eyed. When I heard the sound of the shower, the sound of her slippers, the sound of water boiling, I would go back to sleep, feeling at peace. It was always like that. How I missed her! So much I thought I’d go mad.

I wondered if I’d woken Yuichi with my crying—or was he in the throes of a heavy, painful dream?

A door opened before us that night—the door to the grave.

The next day both of us slept into the afternoon. I had the day off and was nibbling bread and lazily looking through the newspaper when Yuichi came out of his room. After washing his face, he sat down beside me and poured himself a glass of milk. “I guess I’ll go to class now. . . .”

“My, you students have a cushy life, don’t you?” I broke my bread in half for him. “Thanks,” he said, taking it and eating it noisily. I had the strange sensation, while we were sitting in front of the TV, that we really were orphans.

“Mikage,” he said, getting up, “are you going back to your house tonight?”

“Hmm . . .” I thought about it. “I wonder if I should go home after dinner. . . .”

“Ah!” said Yuichi, “make me a professional dinner!” That gave me a terrific idea, and I got serious.

“All right, then, let’s get to work. We’ll make a dinner to end all dinners.”

I enthusiastically planned a magnificent feast, wrote down everything we needed, and thrust the paper at him.

“Take the car. Buy everything on this list and bring it back. I’m going to make all your favorite foods, so I hope you’ll be quick about it, since the sooner you get back, the sooner you’ll be digging in.”

“Ordering me around like a new bride,” he grumbled on his way out.

I heard the door close, and when I was alone I realized I was dead tired. The room was so unearthly quiet, I lost all sense of time being divided into seconds. I felt that I was the only person alive and moving in a world brought to a stop.

Houses always feel like that after someone has died.

I sank into the sofa and stared blankly at the melancholy early-winter gray outside the large window. The heavy, cold air of winter permeated every part of this little neighborhood—the park, the walkways—like a fog. I couldn’t bear it. It oppressed me, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

Truly great people emit a light that warms the hearts of those around them. When that light has been put out, a heavy shadow of despair descends. Perhaps Eriko’s was only a minor kind of greatness, but her light was sorely missed.

I flopped down on my back and looked up at the dear, familiar ceiling. Right after my grandmother died, I had stared at this same ceiling many an afternoon while Yuichi and Eriko were out. I remember thinking to myself, my grandmother is dead, I’ve lost my last blood relation, and things can’t get any worse. But now they had. Eriko had been enormously important to me. In the six months we spent together she had always been there for me; she spoiled me.

To the extent that I had come to understand that despair does not necessarily result in annihilation, that one can go on as usual in spite of it, I had become hardened. Was that what it means to be an adult, to live with ugly ambiguities? I didn’t like it, but it made it easier to go on.

My heart was so heavy now because of just that. I watched the gloomy clouds and the orange of the sunset spreading across them in the western sky. Soon the cold night would descend and fill the hollow in my heart. I felt sleepy but said to myself, if you sleep now, you’ll have bad dreams. So I got up.

After a long absence I was once again in the Tanabe kitchen. For an instant I had a vision of Eriko’s smiling face, and my heart turned over. I felt an urge to get moving. It looked to me like the kitchen had not been used in quite a while. It was somewhat dirty and dark. I began to clean. I scrubbed the sink with scouring powder, wiped off the burners, washed the dishes, sharpened the knives. I washed and bleached all the dish towels, and while watching them go round and round in the dryer I realized that I had become calmer. Why do I love everything that has to do with kitchens so much? It’s strange. Perhaps because to me a kitchen represents some distant longing engraved on my soul. As I stood there, I seemed to be making a new start; something was coming back.

*  *  *  *  *

That summer I had taught myself to cook.

The sensation that my brain cells were multiplying was exhilarating. I bought three books on cooking—fundamentals, theory, and practice—and went through them one by one. On the bus, in bed, on the sofa, I read the one on theory, memorizing caloric content, temperatures, and raw ingredients. Every spare minute I cooked. Those three books grew tattered with use, and even now I always have them near at hand. Like the picture books I loved when I was little, I know the illustrations on each page by heart.

Yuichi and Eriko took to saying to each other, “Mikage has gone completely nuts, hasn’t she?” And it’s true that for the whole summer I went about it with a crazed enthusiasm: cooking, cooking, cooking. I poured all my earnings from my part-time job into it, and if something came out wrong I’d do it over till I got it right. Angry, fretful, or cheery, I cooked through it all.

When I think about it now, it was because of my cooking that the three of us ate together as often as we did; it was a good summer.

Looking out the window as the evening wind came through the screen door, a remnant of pale blue stretching over the hot sky, we ate boiled pork, cold Chinese noodles, cucumber salad. I cooked for them: she who made a fuss over everything I did; he who ate vast quantities in silence.

Complicated omelets, beautifully shaped vegetables cooked in broth, tempura—it took a fair amount of work to be able to make those things. Because my biggest flaw is lack of precision, it didn’t occur to me that dishes turn out badly or well in proportion to one’s attention to detail. For example, if I put something in the oven before it had come to temperature, or if I got the steam going before I had everything chopped, that sort of triviality (or so I thought) was precisely reflected in the color and shape of the final product. Which surprised me. Although that kind of cooking made my dinners no worse than those of the average housewife, they by no means resembled the illustrations in the books.

There was only one way to learn: I tried making anything and everything, and I tried to do it right. I would carefully wipe out the bowls, replace the caps on the spices every time, calmly chart out the steps in advance, and when I began to make myself crazy with irritation I would stop what I was doing and take a few deep breaths. At first my impatience would lead me to the brink of despair, but when I finally learned to correct my mistakes coolly, it was truly as if I had somehow reformed my own slapdash character. Or so I felt (of course, it wasn’t true).

Getting the job I have now, as an assistant to a cooking teacher, was incredible. She not only teaches cooking classes, but also gets a lot of important television and magazine work, and she is actually rather famous. An amazing number of candidates apparently tested for the job. Why was it that I—a novice with only one summer of study under my belt—got hired? When I saw the women who attend the classes, it made sense. Their attitude was completely different from mine.

Those women lived their lives happily. They had been taught, probably by caring parents, not to exceed the boundaries of their happiness regardless of what they were doing. But therefore they could never know real joy. Which is better? Who can say? Everyone lives the way she knows best. What I mean by “their happiness” is living a life untouched as much as possible by the knowledge that we are really, all of us, alone. That’s not a bad thing. Dressed in their aprons, their smiling faces like flowers, learning to cook, absorbed in their little troubles and perplexities, they fall in love and marry. I think that’s great. I wouldn’t mind that kind of life. Me, when I’m utterly exhausted by it all, when my skin breaks out, on those lonely evenings when I call my friends again and again and nobody’s home, then I despise my own life—my birth, my upbringing, everything. I feel only regret for the whole thing.

But—that one summer of bliss. In that kitchen.

I was not afraid of burns or scars; I didn’t suffer from sleepless nights. Every day I thrilled with pleasure at the challenges tomorrow would bring. Memorizing the recipe, I would make carrot cakes that included a bit of my soul. At the supermarket I would stare at a bright red tomato, loving it for dear life. Having known such joy, there was no going back.

No matter what, I want to continue living with the awareness that I will die. Without that, I am not alive. That is what makes the life I have now possible.

Inching one’s way along a steep cliff in the dark: on reaching the highway, one breathes a sigh of relief. Just when one can’t take any more, one sees the moonlight. Beauty that seems to infuse itself, into the heart: I know about that.

It was evening by the time I’d finished cleaning up and preparing for dinner.

Yuichi rang the doorbell and, carrying a large plastic bag in his arms, pushed the door open with a great show of difficulty and stuck his head inside. I walked toward him.

“Unbelievable,” he said, putting down his burden with a thud.

“What is?”

“I bought everything you said to, but I can’t carry it all in one trip. There’s too much.”

“Oh,” I said, pretending not to catch on, but Yuichi’s snort of irritation let me know there was no getting out of it. I went down with him to the garage.

In the car were two more gigantic bags. Even carrying them from the car to the garage entrance was back-breaking.

“I bought a few things for myself, too,” said Yuichi, carrying the heavier of the two.

“A few things?” I peered into my bag. Besides shampoo and notebooks, there were lots of “instant” dinners: a clear indication of his recent eating habits.

“You could have made a couple of trips.”

“Yes, but—with you we can do it in one. Hey, look! Isn’t that a pretty moon?” Yuichi pointed to the winter moon with his chin.

“Oh, isn’t it,” I said sarcastically (his diversionary tactics were so obvious), but as I stepped into the building I turned to glance at it. It was almost full and shed an incredible brightness.

In the elevator on the way up, Yuichi said, “Of course there’s a relationship.”

“Between what?”

“Don’t you think that seeing such a beautiful moon influences what one cooks? But not in the sense of ‘moon-viewing udon,’ for instance.”

The elevator stopped with a little jerk. When he said that, my heart faltered for an instant. He spoke as if he knew my very soul. As we walked to the door, I asked, “In what sense then? In a more profound way?”

“Yes, yes. In a more human sense, you know?”

“I agree. That’s absolutely true,” I said without hesitation. If they asked a hundred people on a quiz show, a hundred voices would reverberate as one: “Yes! Yes! It’s true!”

“You know that I think of you as an artist. For you cooking is an art. You really do love to work in the kitchen. Of course you do. Good thing, too.”

Yuichi agreed with himself again and again, carrying on a one-man conversation. I said, smiling, “You’re just like a child.”

A moment before, my heart had seemed to stop. Now that feeling voiced itself in my mind: If Yuichi is with me, I need nothing else. It flashed for only an instant, but it left me extremely confused, dazzled as I was by the light given off by his eyes.

It took me two hours to make dinner.

Yuichi peeled potatoes and watched TV while I cooked. He had very nimble fingers.

For me, Eriko’s death was still a distant event. I couldn’t deal with it head-on. Faced with a tempest of shock, I could only approach the dark fact of her death little by little. And Yuichi—Yuichi was like a willow beaten down by the driving rain.

So even though it was now just the two of us, we avoided talking about Eriko’s death, and that omission loomed larger and larger in time and space. But for the time being, “just the two of us” was a warm, safe place where the future was on hold. And yet there was—how should I put this?—a huge, terrifying premonition that those unpaid bills would inexorably come due. The enormity of it only heightened our feeling of being orphans alone in the dark.

The limpid night descended, and we began to eat the extravagant dinner I had prepared. Salad, pie, stew, croquettes. Deep-fried tofu, steamed greens, bean thread with chicken (each with their various sauces), Chicken Kiev, sweet-and-sour pork, steamed Chinese dumplings . . . It was an international hodge-podge, but we ate it all (it took hours), with wine, until we couldn’t face another bite.

Yuichi, uncharacteristically, was very drunk. Just as I was thinking that it was odd—I didn’t see him have that much at dinner—I noticed, with a start, an empty bottle on the floor. Apparently he had been at it while I was cooking; no wonder he was three sheets to the wind. I asked him, amazed, “Yuichi, did you drink this whole bottle before dinner?”

Yuichi, face up on the sofa, munching celery, muttered, “Yup.”

“You hid it well,” I said, and Yuichi’s face suddenly looked terribly sad. It’s tough dealing with things when you’re drunk. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

Yuichi said, his face serious, “That’s all everyone has been saying for the last month, and it really hurts.”

“Everyone? You mean at school?”

“Yeah, more or less.”

“Have you been drinking like this for a month?”

“Yeah.”

“No wonder you didn’t feel like calling me,” I said, laughing.

“The telephone was glowing.” He laughed, too. “I’d be walking home at night, drunk, and I’d see a phone booth, all lit up. Even on a dark street I could always see a telephone booth in the distance. I would sort of tortuously make my way over to it, thinking, I have to call Mikage, and I’d repeat your number in my head, get out my telephone card, step into the booth, and everything. But then, just on the verge of dialing, when I’d think about the state I was in, and what I would say, I’d stop. Then I’d go home and collapse into bed and have these horrible dreams where I’d call you and you’d be crying and angry with me.”

“It was all your imagination. And imagination is sometimes worse than reality.”

“You’re right. Suddenly I feel happy.” In a sleepy voice, he continued, pausing frequently. He probably had no idea what he was saying. “You came to this apartment even though my mother is dead. I thought you’d be angry with me and never want to see me again. It was something I was prepared for, if that was how it had to be. I was afraid that the memory of the three of us living here might just be too painful. I had a feeling I would never see you again.” Yuichi breathed a sigh of relief and continued, as though he were talking to himself. “I always liked it when people stayed here on the sofa. The crisp white sheets and all . . . Even though we were at home, it was like being on a trip. . . . Since I’ve been alone in this place, I haven’t been eating very well. I’d often say to myself, hmm, should I cook something? But food, too, was giving off light, like the telephone. So I wondered if eating would put out the light, but it seemed like too much trouble, so I just drank. I thought maybe if I explain everything to Mikage, she’ll come over, maybe not move back in, but just come over. At least maybe she’ll listen to what I have to say. But I was afraid—terribly afraid—to even hope for such happiness. If I did let myself hope for that, and you became angry with me, I’d be pushed even further toward the depth of despair. I didn’t have the confidence, the courage, to explain all this to you so you could understand what was going on with me.”

“That’s so like you.” My tone was angry, but my eyes betrayed tenderness. In the time we had spent together, we had come to share a deep understanding, a kind of telepathy. Despite the alcohol, I had conveyed the complexity of my feelings.

“I wish today could never end,” he continued. “I wish this night would go on forever. Mikage, please move back in.”

“That’s a possibility,” I said, making an effort to be gentle. I was sure he was just talking drunken foolishness. “But Eriko isn’t here anymore. If I were to live here with you, would it be as your lover? Or your friend?”

“You mean, should we sell the sofa and buy a double bed?” Yuichi smiled. Then he said, frankly, “I myself don’t even know.” Oddly, his sincerity touched me most of all. He continued, “Right now I can’t think. What do you mean in my life? How am I myself changing? How will my life be different from before? I don’t have a clue about any of that. I try to think about it, but with the kind of worthless thoughts I’m having in the state I’m in, I can’t decide anything. I’ve got to pull myself out of it soon. Now I’ve got you tangled up in it. The two of us may be in the epicenter of death, but I was hoping to spare you this misery. It could be like this for as long as we stay together.”

“Yuichi, don’t think like that. Let’s see what happens,” I said, on the verge of tears.

“Right. I won’t remember any of this tomorrow. It’s always like that. No day has any connection to the one before.”

With that he flopped down on his stomach, muttering, “I’m in a bad way. . . .”

The apartment had taken on the silence of the dead of night and seemed as though it were listening to Yuichi’s voice. It was lost without Eriko. The feeling bore down heavier as the night deepened. It made me feel that nothing could be shared.

Yuichi and I are climbing a narrow ladder in the jet-black gloom. Together we peer into the cauldron of hell. We stare into the bubbling red sea of fire, and the air hitting our faces is so hot it makes us reel. Even though we’re standing side by side, even though we’re closer to each other than to anyone else in the world, even though we’re friends forever, we don’t join hands. No matter how forlorn we are, we each insist on standing on our own two feet. But I wonder, as I look at his uneasy profile blazingly illuminated by the hellish fire, although we have always acted like brother and sister, aren’t we really man and woman in the primordial sense, and don’t we think of each other that way? But the place we are in now is just too dreadful. It is not a place where two people can create a life together.

Although I had been earnestly daydreaming until then, I suddenly started to laugh. “I see two lovers looking over the edge of the cauldron of hell. Are they contemplating a double suicide? This means their love will end in hell.” I couldn’t stop laughing.

I was certainly no fortune-teller.

Yuichi was fast asleep on the sofa. From the smile on his face he seemed pleased to have fallen asleep before me. He didn’t bat an eyelash when I pulled a quilt over him.

I washed the enormous pile of dirty dishes as quietly as possible, and I cried and cried. Of course it wasn’t over having to wash all those dishes; I was crying for having been left behind in the night, paralyzed with loneliness.

I awoke the next morning to the god-awful ring of the alarm clock I had staunchly set the night before, since I had to be at work at noon. When I stretched my hand out to turn it off, I realized it was the telephone. I answered, “Hello,” and then, immediately recalling I was at somebody else’s house, I added, flustered, “Tanabe residence.”

The party on the other end hung up with a crash. Aha, I thought—a girl. I sheepishly looked over at Yuichi, but he was still sound asleep. So much the better, I thought. I got dressed, slipped out of the apartment, and headed for work. I had the whole afternoon to agonize over whether or not to stay there that night.

I made my way to my job. The operation occupied an entire floor in a large building, what with Sensei’s office, the kitchens, and the photo studio. Sensei was in her office checking over the proofs of a magazine article. Still a young woman, she had a great sense of style and a wonderful way with people. When she saw me she smiled, removed her glasses, and began to give me the rundown on the day’s tasks.

Because today there was a huge amount of prep work for the classes that would begin at three o’clock, she asked me to help and told me that I could go home after we were done. Apparently the head assistant would take over for the evening classes, so I would be finished early. I was almost disappointed, when she then made a proposal that was perfectly timed for my current dilemma.

“Mikage,” she said, “the day after tomorrow we have to go to the Izu Peninsula to do some research. We’ll be staying three nights. I know this is short notice, but if at all possible I wonder if you’d mind coming along.”

“Izu?” I asked, surprised. “Is this for a magazine?”

“Well . . . the thing is, the other girls have scheduling conflicts. We’re planning on going to sample the specialties of a number of inns, and they’ll also tell us something about their preparation. How does that strike you? We’ll be staying in very nice places—traditional inns and hotels. You’d have a room to yourself. But I need an answer as soon as possible—say, by tonight?”

Before she’d even finished, I said, “I’ll go!” With that I answered both her question and the one I had planned to ponder.

“I really appreciate it,” said Sensei with a smile.

As I walked toward the cooking class, I suddenly realized that a weight had been lifted from me. Right now, getting away from Tokyo, away from Yuichi, to put some distance between us for a little while, struck me as a very good thing.

When I opened the door, I saw that Nori and Kuri, two of my fellow assistants, my seniors on the job by a year, were already at work on the preparations.

“Mikage,” said Kuri as soon as she saw me, “did you hear about Izu?”

Nori smiled. “Sounds great, doesn’t it? There’s going to be French food and all kinds of seafood, too.”

“Yes. But by the way, why is it I get to go?”

“Oh—I’m sorry. We’re both scheduled for golf lessons, so we can’t. But really, if you can’t do it, one of us will just miss a lesson. Right, Kuri? It’s okay.”

“Yes, that’s right, Mikage, so be honest with us.”

I smiled—both of them were so sincerely sweet—and shook my head. “No, no,” I assured them, “it’s really fine with me.”

They had come to work here together after graduating from the same university. Naturally, having done four years of culinary study, they were real pros.

Kuri’s sunny disposition lent her an appealing cuteness, and Nori was a beauty of the “proper young lady” variety. They were best friends. Their clothes were always in the best of taste, the kind that you can’t help but stare at. They were even-tempered, considerate, and patient. Of their type—that is, young ladies of good family, hardly a rarity in the culinary world—they were the genuine article.

Once in a while Nori’s mother would telephone. She was so gentle and kind she made me feel shy. What amazed me was that she usually seemed to know Nori’s schedule for the entire day. But then I guess all mothers are like that.

Nori would talk to her on the phone in a voice like a silver bell, smiling a little smile and smoothing her long, fluttering hair.

As different as Kuri and Nori were from me, I liked them immensely. Just for handing them a ladle, they would smile and say thank you. If I had a cold they would immediately be all concern. The sight of them giggling, their white aprons brilliant in the light, made me happy. Working side by side with them was a pleasure that put me at peace with the world.

Dividing ingredients into bowls, bringing giant vats of water to a boil, measuring—doing routine work until three o’clock suited me fine. This sunny, large-windowed room, those big tables lined up in front of the ovens, the broilers and burners, reminded me of the home-ec rooms at school.

We gossiped, having fun as we worked.

It happened just a little after two. Unexpectedly, someone knocked very hard at the door.

“That might be Sensei.” Nori looked up, puzzled. “Come in?” she said hesitantly.

Kuri whispered nervously, “I’ve forgotten to remove my nail polish! I’ll get in trouble!” I bent down, looking for the nail polish remover in my bag.

The door opened, and we heard a girl’s voice say, “Is there a Mikage Sakurai here?” I stood up quickly, surprised to hear my name. In the doorway was a girl I had never seen before.

Her face was a little babyish. I thought she was probably younger than me. She was small, and her eyes were round and hard. She stood her ground staunchly, wearing beige pumps and a brown coat over a thin yellow sweater. Her legs were sexy, if a little chubby. Her whole person had that roundness to it. Her narrow forehead was completely exposed, her bangs carefully curled back. Atop the supple curves of her body, her red-painted lips were angrily set.

I was worried. She didn’t seem unlikable, but . . . I couldn’t imagine what she might have come for, although the reason was definitely not trivial.

Nori and Kuri, distressed, watched her from behind my back. I had to say something.

“Excuse me, but who are you?”

“My name is Okuno. I’ve come to speak with you.” Her voice was hoarse but high-pitched.

“I’m sorry, but I’m working right now. Would you mind calling me tonight at home?”

“At Yuichi’s house, you mean?” she piped up. At last I understood. She was this morning’s hang-up caller. I said with conviction, “No, at my house.”

Nori interjected: “Mikage, it’s okay to go out. We’ll tell Sensei you had to do some last-minute shopping for the trip.”

“That won’t be necessary. We’ll be finished very soon,” said the girl.

“Are you a friend of Yuichi Tanabe’s?” I asked, making an effort to remain calm.

“Yes, I’m a classmate at the university. I came here today because I have something to ask of you. I’ll be clear about it. Stay out of Yuichi’s life.”

“That’s up to Yuichi,” I said. “Even if you are his girlfriend, it doesn’t strike me as something you should decide for him.”

She turned red with anger. “Do you think what you’re doing is right? You say you’re not his girlfriend, yet you go over there whenever you want, you spend the night, you do what you please, don’t you? That’s worse than living together.” Her eyes had filled with tears. “I never lived with him, I’m just a classmate; of course you know him better than I do. But in my own way, I love him. I comforted him when his mother died. A while back, when I told him how all this bothered me, he just said, ‘So what about Mikage?’ ‘Is she your girlfriend?’ I asked. ‘Let’s not talk about it now,’ he said. Then, since the entire school knew there was a girl living at his house, I just dropped the whole thing.”

I started to say, “I’m not living there anymore . . .” but she interrupted me. “You don’t accept the responsibilities of a relationship. You just like to have fun and you keep him tied to you. Parading your slender arms and legs, your long hair, in front of him, never letting him forget your womanhood—thanks to you, Yuichi is half a man. That would really suit you, wouldn’t it, to leave things undecided forever? But love is not a joke, it also means sharing someone else’s pain. To slip that burden, with that cool face of yours, saying you understand everything. . . . I’m asking you, please, don’t see Yuichi anymore. I’m begging you. Because as long as you’re around, Yuichi is stuck.”

Her insights were pretty self-serving, but because the violence of her words hit me exactly where it hurt, I was deeply pained. She was about to continue. I saw her open her mouth again, and I yelled, “Stop!”

She shut up, startled. I said, “I understand what you mean, but we each have to face our own feelings. What you say doesn’t take into account any of mine. How can you be so sure, when you don’t even know me, that I don’t think about these things?”

“How can you speak so coldly?” She answered my question with a question, tears streaming down her face.

“You say you’ve loved Yuichi all along?” I said. “With that attitude, I can’t believe it. I just heard about his mother’s death and I was sleeping over because of that. You’re not being fair.”

My heart filled with a terrible sadness. Surely she didn’t want to hear about how Eriko had taken me into their home, about the emotional state I had been in at the time, about the complicated, fragile relationship I had with Yuichi now. She had only come to blame me. So even though I wasn’t a rival, after this morning’s phone call she must have asked around about me, found out where I worked, and ridden the train here, from somewhere far away, no doubt. All for a depressing mission that could offer her no solace. When I imagined the workings of her mind, the senseless anger that spurred her to come here, I pitied her from the bottom of my heart.

“I’m not insensitive,” I said. “I know what it’s like to lose someone. But this isn’t the place to talk about it. If you have anything more to say . . .” I was about to tell her to call me at home, but instead I ended up blurting out, “. . . or perhaps you’d like me to sob hysterically and chase you with a kitchen knife?” I admit that it was rather coldblooded of me. She gave me an evil scowl and said in a chilly voice, “I’ve said all I had to say. Excuse me.” Those were her parting words. With the click, click of her little beige pumps, she turned and walked to the door. Then, slamming it with a bang, she was gone.

It was over, leaving behind the bitter aftertaste of a confrontation in which nothing was gained.

“Mikage, you did nothing wrong.” Kuri came to my side, looking concerned.

“Yes,” said Nori, peering kindly into my eyes. “She’s insane. I think she’s gone a little crazy with jealousy. Cheer up, Mikage.”

In the afternoon sunlight of the kitchen, I found myself feeling immensely tired.

That evening I went back to the Tanabe apartment for my toothbrush and towel. Yuichi was out. I made myself some instant curry and ate it alone.

Cooking and eating in this house felt natural, almost too natural. I was absently mulling over my conversation with the girl when he came home. “Hi,” he said.

Even though he couldn’t know what had happened, and although I had done nothing wrong, I couldn’t meet his eyes. “Yuichi, I just found out I have to go to Izu, for work, the day after tomorrow. I left my apartment in a mess the other night and I must go home and straighten up before the trip, so I think I’ll stay there tonight. Oh—there’s some curry left, help yourself.”

“I see. Okay, I’ll give you a ride,” he said, smiling.

We set off in the car. The city flew past. We’d be at my place in another five minutes.

“Yuichi?”

“Hmm?”

“Umm . . . Let’s . . . let’s go have tea.”

“I thought you were in such a hurry to pack and everything. It’s fine with me, though.”

“I have this incredible craving for tea.”

“Let’s do it. Where do you want to go?”

“You know that barley-tea shop above the beauty parlor?”

“Isn’t that a little far? It’s clear across town.”

“I just have a feeling that’s the best place.”

“Okay, why not?” Even if it didn’t make any sense to him, he was being very nice about it. Because he could see I wasn’t feeling so hot, if I mentioned wanting to see the moon over Arabia right now, he’d say, “Let’s go.”

The little second-floor tea shop was quiet and cheerful. Surrounded by white walls, the place was warm and toasty. We sat down across from each other at the innermost table. There were no other customers. Movie sound-track music was playing faintly.

“Yuichi, when I think about it, isn’t this the first time we’ve ever been to a café together? It’s very strange.”

“Is that right?” His eyes widened. He was drinking smelly Earl Grey whose soapy odor reminded me of many a late night at the Tanabes’. I’d be watching television with the sound down low in the dead quiet of midnight, and Yuichi would come out of his room to make tea.

In the uncertain ebb and flow of time and emotions, much of one’s life history is etched in the senses. And things of no particular importance, or irreplaceable things, can suddenly resurface in a café one winter night.

“We’ve drunk so much tea together,” said Yuichi. “At first I thought it couldn’t be true that we haven’t been to a café together, but come to think of it, it is.”

“Funny, isn’t it.” I smiled.

“Nothing, nothing at all has any flavor for me now,” said Yuichi, staring at the lamp on the table. “I must be really tired.”

“That’s only natural,” I said, somewhat surprised.

“When your grandmother died you were like this, too. I remember it well. We’d be watching TV or whatever, and you’d say, like, ‘What are they saying,’ and I’d look up at you and you’d have this expression on your face, like your mind was blank. Now I understand completely.”

“Yuichi,” I said, “the fact that you’re relaxed enough with me now to tell me how you’re really feeling is a source of comfort to me. It makes me very happy. So happy I feel like shouting it from the rooftops.”

“What kind of talk is that? Sounds like it was translated from English.” Yuichi smiled, the light from the table lamp shining on his face. His shoulders shook beneath his navy blue sweater.

“It does, doesn’t it? If. . .” I wanted to say, “If there’s anything I can do, just say so,” but I stopped myself. I silently implored: May the memory of this moment, here, the glowing impression of the two of us facing each other in this warm, bright place, drinking lovely hot tea, help save him, even a little bit.

Words, too explicit, always cast a shadow over that faint glow. Outside, night had come. The indigo-colored air was growing colder.

Whenever we got in the car, he would always open my door first and get me seated before he climbed in the driver’s side.

I mentioned it as we pulled out. “There aren’t many men who will open a car door for a woman. I think it’s really great.”

“Eriko raised me that way,” he said, laughing. “If I didn’t open the door for her, she’d get mad and refuse to get in the car.”

“Even though she was a man!” I said, laughing.

“Right, right, even though she was a man.”

With that, silence fell with a thud.

It was night in the city. We watched the people come and go while we waited at the light: businessmen and office girls, young people and old, all beautifully aglow in the headlights. Enveloped in the silent cold, bundled in sweaters and coats—it was the hour when everyone was headed for someplace warm.

Then it suddenly occurred to me—Yuichi must have opened the car door for that awful girl as well. Inexplicably, my seatbelt seemed too tight. I realized with amazement—oh! This must be jealousy. Like children when they first learn why people say “ouch,” this was my first experience of it. Now that Eriko was dead, the two of us, alone, were flowing down that river of light, suspended in the cosmic darkness, and were approaching a critical juncture.

I understood. I understood it from the color of the sky, the shape of the moon, the blackness of the night sky under which we passed. The building lights, the streetlights, were unforgiving.

He stopped in front of my house. “So,” he said, “be sure to bring me back something.” After this he’d be going back to that apartment, alone. Soon, no doubt, he’d be watering his plants.

“An eel pie, of course.” I laughed.

His profile was dimly illuminated by the streetlights.

“An eel pie? You mean those coiled pastries? You can buy those at any food stand.”

“Well, then . . . some tea, perhaps?”

“Hmm . . . how about some pickled wasabi root?”

“Really? I can’t stand the stuff. Do you like it?”

“Only the kind with roe in it.”

“Okay, that’s what I’ll bring you.” I smiled and opened the car door.

Suddenly a freezing draft came blowing in.

“It’s cold!” I exclaimed. “Yuichi, it’s cold, cold, cold!” I buried my face in his arm, gripping it fiercely. His warm sweater smelled of autumn leaves.

“Surely it’ll be a little warmer in Izu,” Yuichi said, almost contemplatively. I kept my face pressed to his side.

“How long did you say you’re staying?” he said, not moving. His voice resonated directly into my ear.

“Four days and three nights.” I gently pulled myself away.

“You should come back feeling a little bit better, and we’ll go out for tea again, okay?” He looked at me, smiling.

I nodded, got out of the car, and waved good-bye.

As I watched him drive off, I thought, I can’t say everything that happened today was unpleasant.

Whether she or I were winning or losing, who could say? Who could know which of us was in the better position? The score couldn’t be determined. Besides, there was no standard of measure, and, particularly on this cold night, I couldn’t even hazard a guess.

A memory of Eriko, the saddest one of all.

Of all the many plants in her terrace window, the one she had acquired first was the potted pineapple. She told me about it once.

“It was the dead of winter. I was still a man then, Mikage. A handsome man, even though my eyes were different and my nose was a little flatter. Because I hadn’t had the plastic surgery yet, you see? Even I can’t remember what I looked like anymore.”

It was a summer dawn and the air was chilly. Yuichi was away for the night, and Eriko had brought back a customer’s gift of meat buns. As was my habit, I was taking notes while watching a cooking program I had recorded the day before. The blue dawn sky was slowly beginning to grow lighter in the east.

“Shall we eat these meat buns? It was so sweet of him to bring them to me,” she had said, turning on the broiler and making jasmine tea. Suddenly she launched into the story.

I was a little surprised. I had assumed she was going to relate some unpleasant incident at the club. I listened sleepily. Her voice sounded like a voice in a dream.

“It was a long time ago, you see. Yuichi’s mother was dying. I was a man, and she was my wife. She had cancer. At this point it was getting worse by the day. Anyhow, because we loved each other so much, every day I went to be with her at the hospital. I foisted Yuichi on a neighbor. I had a job then, so I sat with her before and after work, every spare minute. Yuichi would come with me on Sundays, but he was too young to know what was going on. I had what you could call a desperate faith; I still had hope, no matter how little. Each day for me was the darkest in the world. I didn’t feel it so much at the time, but she was in an even darker place.”

Eriko cast down her eyes, as if she were telling the sweetest of stories. In the blue light she looked thrillingly beautiful.

“My wife said one day, ‘How I’d love to have some living thing in this room. . . .’ Living things were connected to the sun; I thought, a plant, yes, a plant. She urged me to get a big potted plant, one that didn’t require much care. I raced to the flower shop, overjoyed that there was something I could give her. A typical male, at that time I didn’t know benjamin from saintpaulia. I only knew I didn’t want a cactus, so I bought her a pineapple plant. It was a plant I could understand; it had little fruit growing on it and everything. When I carried it into the sickroom she looked delighted and thanked me again and again.

“She was getting closer and closer to the end. One evening, three days before she went into a coma, she said to me, just as I was leaving, ‘Please take the pineapple home.’ To look at her she didn’t seem worse than usual. Naturally we hadn’t told her she had cancer, but it was as if she knew, as if she were whispering her last wishes. I was surprised and said, ‘Why? I can see that it’s withering, but wouldn’t you rather have it?’ But she begged me, in tears, to take it home, this sunny plant from a southern place, before it became infused with death. I had no choice. I took it in my arms.

“Because I was crying my eyes out, I couldn’t take a taxi. It was colder than hell, too. That may have been the first time it occurred to me I didn’t like being a man. When I calmed down somewhat, after walking as far as the station and having a drink in a little bar, I took the train. That night the freezing wind whistled through the apartment. With no one there, it could hardly have been called a home. I trembled, holding the pineapple tight against my chest. The sharp leaves stuck my cheeks. In this world, tonight, only the pineapple and I understand each other—that thought came straight from my heart. Closing my eyes, as if against the cold wind, I felt we were the only two living things sharing that loneliness. My wife, who understood me better than anyone, was by now—more than I, more than the pineapple—on intimate terms with death.

“Soon after that she died, and the pineapple withered, too. I didn’t know how to care for plants and had overwatered it, you see. I stuck it out in a corner of the yard, and although I couldn’t have put it into words, I came to understand something. If I try to say what it is now, it’s very simple: I realized that the world did not exist for my benefit. It followed that the ratio of pleasant and unpleasant things around me would not change. It wasn’t up to me. It was clear that the best thing to do was to adopt a sort of muddled cheerfulness. So I became a woman, and here I am.”

I understood what she was trying to say, and I remember thinking, listlessly, is this what it means to be happy? But now I feel it in my gut. Why is it we have so little choice? We live like the lowliest worms. Always defeated—defeated we make dinner, we eat, we sleep. Everyone we love is dying. Still, to cease living is unacceptable.

Tonight, again, I felt the darkness hindering my breathing. In my heavy, depressed sleep, I battled each demon in turn.

The next day was bright and sunny, and in the morning, as I was doing some laundry for the trip, the phone rang.

It’s eleven-thirty, I thought. Strange time for a phone call. Puzzled, I answered it.

“Aaaah!” screamed a high, thin voice. “Mikage, dear? How have you been?”

“Chika!” I exclaimed. Although she seemed to be calling from a phone booth—there were loud traffic noises in the background—I had no trouble identifying the voice. It summoned up her image in my mind.

Chika was the head girl at Eriko’s club. She was, of course, a transvestite, and she often used to spend the night at the apartment. Eriko had willed the club to her.

Compared with Eriko, Chika was undeniably a man in appearance. But she (so to speak) did look rather beautiful when made up and was tall and slender. The showy dresses she wore suited her, and her manner was very gentle. One time, a little kid in the subway, making fun of her, lifted her skirt to take a look. She couldn’t stop crying. She was very sensitive. Much as I hate to admit it, around her I always felt like the masculine one.

“I’m by the train station right now,” she said. “Can you get away? I have to talk to you about something. Have you had lunch?”

“Not yet.”

“Well then, come to Sarashina, the soba shop, immediately!” Ever impetuous, with that she hung up. I felt I had no choice; I stopped doing my laundry and went out.

I hurried through the neighborhood streets under the brilliant, shadowless light of high noon. I found the place among the row of shops in front of the station and went in. There was Chika, eating soba noodles with fried bits of tempura batter and wearing what is practically the national costume, a two-piece warmup suit.

“Chika!” I walked over to her.

“Aaaah!” she screamed. “It’s been so long! You’ve grown so beautiful, I can hardly look at you—wait, let me get my sunglasses.” Her warmth banished any embarrassment I might have been feeling. I only saw her untroubled smile that said to the world, “What have I got to be ashamed of?” In the presence of her brilliant face, a little bit of Chika rubbed off on me, and I ordered loudly, “Extra-thick noodles with chicken, please.” The waitress, bustling about in the noon rush, slammed a glass of water down before me.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” I got to the point, slurping my noodles.

Whenever Chika “had to tell me something,” it never amounted to anything, and I expected this time to be the same. But she whispered, gravely, “It’s about Yuichi.”

My heart leaped with an audible thump.

“Last night he came into the club saying he couldn’t sleep. He was feeling terrible. ‘Let’s go have some fun,’ he said. Don’t get me wrong, honey, I’ve known that boy since he was so-oo high. There’s nothing funny between us, we’re like parent and child. Parent and child, you know?”

I smiled. “I know, Chika.”

She continued. “I was surprised. I’m crazy myself and many times I don’t understand other people’s feelings, but . . . That boy has never, ever, let anybody see a weakness in him before, you know that. He was on the verge of tears, and that’s not like him. He kept insisting, ‘Let’s go somewhere.’ The poor dear looked so unhappy, I was afraid he might just waste away. I really wanted to be with him, but we’re right in the middle of getting the club back to normal. Everybody’s still pretty jumpy around there, and I couldn’t leave. I told him I couldn’t, so he said dejectedly, ‘I’ll go somewhere by myself then.’ I gave him the name of an inn I know.”

“I see,” I said. “I see.”

“I told him, just teasing, ‘Why don’t you take Mikage?’ I didn’t mean anything by it. He answered me, dead serious, ‘Aw, she’s going to Izu for her job. Besides, I don’t want to get her mixed up in my problems. Now that she’s doing so well and all, it wouldn’t be right to drag her down.’ Then it hit me—they’re in love. Of course, no doubt about it, you’re in love. I’m going to give you the address and phone number of the inn. Mikage, why don’t you go after him?”

“Chika,” I said, “I have to go on a trip for work tomorrow.” I was in shock.

I felt I understood Yuichi’s feelings as if I held them in my own two hands. Like me, but a hundred times more so, he had to get far away somewhere. He wanted to be alone, someplace where he wouldn’t have to think about anything. To escape from it all, including me. Maybe he was even thinking of not coming back for some time. I was sure of it.

“What’s this about work?” Chika leaned toward me. “In a time like this, there’s only one thing for a woman to do. What’s the matter, honey, still a virgin? Or, oo-ooh, I get it. You two haven’t slept together yet?”

“Chika!” I exclaimed, appalled. Still, a part of me thought, wouldn’t it be a better world if everyone were like Chika? In her eyes I saw reflected a far happier picture of Yuichi and me than was in fact the case.

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “I just heard about Eriko and I’m still all confused, but it must be much worse for Yuichi. I have to be very gentle with him.”

Chika looked up from her noodles, her face serious. “I know,” she said. “You see, I wasn’t working that night and I didn’t witness dear Eriko’s death. So in a way I still haven’t accepted it. But I knew the man. He came to the club all the time. If Eriko had only confided in me, I’m sure it could have been prevented. Yuichi is the same way. It’s such a shame. One night we were watching the news together, and that gentle boy suddenly said, with a frightening look on his face, ‘People who kill people should all be dead.’ Yuichi is all alone in the world now. Eriko always handled her own problems no matter what they were. He got that from her, and this is the dark side of that independence. It’s gone too far!”

One by one the tears slipped down Chika’s face. When she began to sob audibly, “Wah. Wah.” everyone in the place turned to stare at her. Chika’s shoulders jerked spasmodically, racked with grief. Tears fell into her soup.

“Mikage dear, I’m so miserable. Why do things like this have to happen? I can’t believe in the gods. We’ll never see dear Eriko again, and I can’t bear it.”

I walked Chika, who was still sobbing, from the restaurant to the station, my arm around her tall shoulders.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. At the turnstile she slipped me a note with the directions to Yuichi’s inn and the phone number. She may be just a bar girl, I thought, but her knowledge of the right spots to press was impeccable.

Deeply moved, I watched her broad back disappear.

It was true that she jumped to conclusions and that her life was a mess—even her earlier stint as a salesman had been a failure. I was aware of all that, but the beauty of her tears was something I would not soon forget. She made me realize that the human heart is something very precious.

Under the blue sky, inhaling the clear, sharp bite of winter air, I was overwhelmed by it all. What should I do? I had no idea. The sky was blue, blue. The bare trees were sharply silhouetted, and a cold wind was seeping through.

“I can’t believe in the gods.”

*  *  *  *  *

The next day I set out for Izu as planned.

With our small group—Sensei, several staff members, and a cameraman—it promised to be a pleasant trip. The daily schedule was not demanding. Yes, I thought, this is a dream trip. A gift from above. I felt I was being set free from the events of the last half-year.

That last half-year . . . Until Eriko’s death my relationship with Yuichi had been laughing and carefree, but under the surface it had been growing more and more complicated. The times of great happiness and great sorrow were too intense; it was impossible to reconcile them with the routine of daily life. With great effort we each tried to find a peaceful space for ourselves. But Eriko had been the dazzling sun that lit the place.

The experiences of the last months had changed me. In the mirror I could see only a trace of the spoiled princess I had been, the one who took Eriko for granted. I was so far from that now.

Staring out the window of the van at the clear, sunny landscape, I realized how terribly far I had come. I, too, was dead tired. I, too, wanted to get away from Yuichi, to find some peace. Sad, but that’s how it was.

That evening I went to Sensei’s room in my bathrobe.

“Sensei,” I said, “I’m dying of hunger. Do you mind if I go out and get something to eat?”

One of the older staff members, who was sharing a room with her, burst out laughing and said to me, “Poor Mikage, you didn’t eat a thing at dinner, did you?” The two of them were sitting on their futons, dressed for bed.

I was starving. This inn was famous for a vegetarian cuisine consisting entirely of smelly vegetables I hate—I, who shouldn’t be a picky eater—so I’d barely touched a thing. Sensei smiled and said it was fine with her.

It was past ten. I went back down the long corridor to my room, got dressed, and left the inn. For fear of getting locked out, I quietly unbolted the rear emergency door.

The food at this inn had been hideous, but the next day we were planning to get in the van and move on. As I walked along in the moonlight, I wished that I might spend the rest of my life traveling from place to place. If I had a family to go home to perhaps I might have felt adventurous, but as it was I would be horribly lonely. Still, it just might be the life for me. When you’re traveling, every night the air is clear and crisp, the mind serene. In any case, if nobody was waiting for me anywhere, yes, this serene life would be the thing. But I’m not free, I realized; I’ve been touched by Yuichi’s soul. How much easier it would be to stay away forever.

I walked for a while along a street thick with inns.

The dark shadows of the mountains loomed blacker than the night sky over the town below. Drunken tourists were everywhere (looking cold in their padded winter kimonos), laughing loudly. I felt strangely lighthearted. I was excited. Alone under the stars, in a strange place.

I walked along, stepping on my shadow, watching it lengthen and shorten with every streetlight I passed. Avoiding the noisy bars that frightened me, I kept going until I was almost at the station. I peered into the darkened windows of souvenir shops and I spotted the light coming from a small eatery that was still open. Through the frosted-glass door I saw it had only one customer, who was sitting at the counter. I opened the door with a sense of relief and went in.

I craved something heavy and filling, so I ordered deep-fried pork in broth over rice. “Katsudon, please,” I said.

“I have to fry the pork,” said the counterman. “It’ll take a while. That okay with you?” I nodded. The place was new and smelled of clean, white wood. Everything was carefully tended; it had a good atmosphere. This sort of place usually has great food. While I waited, I spied a pink telephone an arm’s length away.

I reached for it and picked up the receiver. It felt very natural to pull out Chika’s note and dial the number of the inn where Yuichi was staying.

While the lady at the desk was transferring the call to Yuichi’s room, I had a sudden thought. The forlornness I had felt in relation to Yuichi since hearing about Eriko’s death was linked with the idea of “telephone.” Since then, even when he was standing next to me, I had felt as if Yuichi were in some other world, at the other end of a telephone line. And that other world was darker than the place where I was. It was like the bottom of the sea.

Yuichi answered. “Hello?”

“Yuichi?” It was a relief to hear his voice.

“Mikage, is that you? How did you know where I was? Ah, of course, Chika.” His words sounded far away, traveling over the cable, through the night. I closed my eyes, just listening to that voice I missed so much. It was like lonely waves against the shore.

“So,” I said, “what do they have there, where you’re staying?”

“Well, there’s a Denny’s. Ha, ha, just kidding. Let’s see, there’s a shrine on the mountaintop; I guess it’s famous. At the base of the mountain there’s this inn that serves nothing but tofu—what they call ‘monk’s food’—which is what I had for dinner.”

“What kind of food is that? Sounds interesting.”

“Oh, right, taking a professional interest, are you? Well, it’s tofu, tofu, and more tofu. I mean, it’s good, but still, it’s just tofu. Savory custard, tofu baked with miso, fried tofu, citron, sesame seeds—everything with tofu. Even the clear soup is served with—surprise—egg tofu floating in it. I was dying to sink my teeth into something solid, and I thought, well, they’ll have to serve rice at the end, anyway—but no! They gave us soupy rice in tea. I felt like an old man.”

“That’s funny—me too. I’m starving right now.”

“What, don’t they serve food at your inn?”

“Yes, but only things I hate.”

“Tough break, huh? The odds against that are enormous.”

“It’s okay, though. Tomorrow we’ll have great food.”

“Lucky you. Let me try to guess what I’ll get for breakfast . . . tofu in hot water, I’ll bet.”

“Right. Probably over a charcoal fire, in a little earthenware pot. Yes, that’s it.”

“Now that I think about it, Chika loves tofu. No wonder she said this place was so great. And it is—I mean, it has these big windows, with a view of a waterfall and all. But a growing boy like me wants nice, fattening foods, as greasy as possible. It’s strange, isn’t it? Both of us under the same night sky, both with empty bellies.” Yuichi laughed.

I know this is incredibly stupid, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him, “Hey, I’m about to eat pork and rice!” It seemed like the worst kind of treachery. I couldn’t destroy Yuichi’s picture of us starving together.

At that moment I had a thrillingly sharp intuition. I knew it as if I held it in my hands: In the gloom of death that surrounded the two of us, we were just at the point of approaching and negotiating a gentle curve. If we bypassed it, we would split off into different directions. In that case we would forever remain just friends.

I knew it. I knew it with absolute certainty.

I was at a loss as to what to do. And after all it would be okay to ask.

“When are you coming back?”

After a silence Yuichi said, “Very soon.”

He’s a bad liar: I was sure he would stay there as long as his money held out. This was the same Yuichi who had delayed telling me about Eriko’s death and kept his depression to himself. That was his nature.

“Well, see you later, then,” I said.

“Right. Later.” Perhaps not even he himself understood why he had to run away.

“Don’t slit your wrists, okay?” I said, joking.

He laughed and said good-bye.

As soon as I hung up I was hit by a wave of exhaustion. My hand still resting on the receiver, I stared intently at the glass door of the restaurant, listening to the wind rattling outside. People walked past, complaining about the cold. Day had turned to night, and night was passing in the same way all over the world. Now I felt really alone, at the bottom of a deep loneliness that no one could touch.

People aren’t overcome by situations or outside forces; defeat invades from within, I thought. I had lost my last ounce of strength. Before my eyes something was coming to an end, something I didn’t want to end, but for which I lacked the energy to suffer, much less fight. There was only a leaden hopelessness in me.

Maybe someday I’d be able to think it over calmly, in a brighter place than this, full of sunlight and flowers. But by then it would be too late.

My katsudon was ready. I perked up and split my chopsticks. Thinking, an army travels on its stomach, I contemplated my meal. Although it looked exceptionally delicious, that was nothing to the way it tasted. It was outrageously good.

“This is incredible!” I blurted out spontaneously to the counterman.

“I thought you’d like it.” He smiled triumphantly.

You may say it’s because I was starving, but remember, this is my profession. This katsudon, encountered almost by accident, was made with unusual skill, I must say. Good quality meat, excellent broth, the eggs and onions handled beautifully, the rice with just the right degree of firmness to hold up in the broth—it was flawless. Then I remembered having heard Sensei mention this place: “It’s a pity we won’t have time for it,” she had said. What luck! And then I thought, ah, if only Yuichi were here. I impulsively said to the counterman, “Can this be made to go? Would you make me another one, please?”

That’s how I came to find myself standing alone in the street, close to midnight, belly pleasantly full, a hot takeout container of katsudon in my hands, completely bewildered as to how to proceed.

Whatever was I thinking of? Now what do I do? I was wondering that when a taxi approached and squealed to a stop, which solved the dilemma. I announced my destination. “I’d like to go to Isehara, please.”

“Isehara?” screeched the driver, turning to look at me. “It’s more than all right with me, but it’s far. It’s going to be expensive, you know.”

“Yes, but it’s rather urgent.” I acknowledged the fact calmly, like Joan of Arc before the Dauphin. I was even convincing myself it was normal. “When we get there I’ll pay the fare. But I’d like you to wait about twenty minutes while I take care of some business, and then bring me back here.”

“A matter of love, is it?”

I smiled ruefully. “Something along those lines.”

“Okay, then, let’s get going.”

The taxi set off for Isehara in the night, the katsudon and myself in tow.

I drowsed, overcome once more by the exhaustions of the day, while we flew up the practically empty road. Suddenly I awoke. I had a clear impression that only my consciousness was awake, while my arms and legs still slept, all nice and warm. When I sat up to look out the window in the darkened cab, the rest of my body came to life. The driver said, “We’re almost there. We made good time.”

I agreed and looked up at the sky.

The moon shone down from high above, crossing the sky, erasing the stars in its path. It was full. I watched it go behind a cloud, completely hidden, and re-emerge. In the hot car, I fogged the window with my breath. We passed by the silhouettes of trees and fields and mountains, like cutout pictures. Once in a while a truck would roar past us, then all would go back to utter stillness. The asphalt glistened in the moonlight.

Soon we were in Isehara.

Immersed in the deep, dark night were rows of shops and houses. Mixed among the roofs of homes were the torii gates of numberless little Shinto shrines. We chugged up the narrow sloping road. The line of the mountain cable car swung heavily in the gloom.

The driver said, “You know, there used to be many monks in this area, and they couldn’t eat meat, so they invented all these different ways to eat tofu. Nowadays the inns are quite well-known for it. You should come here for lunch sometime and try it.”

“I’ve heard.” I was squinting at the paper Chika had given me, trying to read it by the light of the evenly spaced street lamps. “Ah!” I said. “Please stop at the next corner. I’ll be back soon.”

“Sure thing,” he said, bringing the cab to a sudden halt.

*  *  *  *  *

It was bone-chillingly cold, and soon my hands and cheeks were frozen. I took out my gloves and put them on. I climbed the hill in the moonlight, the katsudon in my backpack.

I had an uneasy premonition and it didn’t prove wrong. The inn where Yuichi was staying was not the old-fashioned kind, which would have been easy to get into in the middle of the night. At the front entrance the automatic glass door was securely locked, as was the emergency exit at the bottom of the outer stairs.

I walked back down the path to call the inn, but no one answered. That was reasonable. It was midnight, after all.

I felt puzzled as I stood before the darkened building: What on earth am I doing all the way out here?

Then, unwilling to give up, I walked around to the back, inching my way along a tiny path next to the emergency exit. Just as Yuichi had said, from the garden you could see the waterfall, and each room faced the garden, which was no doubt a selling point. But every window was dark. I sighed, contemplating the situation. A railing ran along the cliff, and the high, thin stream kept up a steady sound of falling water against the mossy rocks below. White flecks of cold-looking spray gleamed in the dark. The whole waterfall was illuminated here and there by amazingly bright green lights that brought the trees into almost unnatural relief. The scene reminded me of the Jungle Cruise at Disneyland. Thinking, what a fake-looking green, I turned around and once more gazed up at the row of darkened windows.

Just then, somehow, I knew.

The room in the near corner, the window reflecting green light—that was Yuichi’s.

I felt at any moment I would be peering through that window. I began to climb up a pile of garden stones against the wall.

Looking up, I saw the edge of an ornamental ledge that ran around the building between the first and second floors. It occurred to me that I could just reach it on tiptoe. Carefully gauging the stability of the haphazardly stacked pile of stones, I took a second step, then a third, and I got even nearer. Facing a pair of shutters, I tentatively stretched out a hand. I just barely got a grip. Determined, I jumped and managed to cling fast to a shutter with one hand. Making a supreme effort, I was able to launch the other hand over the top of the ornamental ledge and held onto the tile with all my strength. Suddenly, as I hung there, pressed vertically against the side of the building, what few athletic skills I had seemed to leave me with an audible sssshhhhh.

Still holding fast to the tile at the jutting edge of the ornamental ledge, stretched to the maximum, I found myself in a fix. My arms were numb with cold, and my backpack was working itself off one shoulder and down my arm.

Look at you, I thought. Thanks to a sudden whim, here you are hanging from a roof, panting white puffs of breath. You’ve really outdone yourself this time.

The stones I had climbed up on seemed to loom dark and far away. The roaring of the waterfall reverberated desperately. I had no choice: I gave it everything I had and pulled myself up, dangling from the ledge. I lifted the top half of my body up and over, kicking off the wall with grim determination.

I heard a ripping sound, and a searing pain shot up my right arm. I managed to roll myself onto the roof on all fours. My legs made a splashing noise as I lolled in a filthy pool of what must have been rain water.

Still lying down, but having reached a haven, I looked at my arm. It was covered in red from the bleeding wound. It made me dizzy to look at it.

I shrugged off my pack. Lying there on my back, I looked up at the roof of the inn and, staring at the glowing moon and clouds, I thought, really, we’re all in the same position. (It occurred to me that I had often thought that in similar situations, in moments of utter desperation. I would like to be known as an action philosopher.)

We all believe we can choose our own path from among the many alternatives. But perhaps it’s more accurate to say that we make the choice unconsciously. I think I did—but now I knew it, because now I was able to put it into words. But I don’t mean this in the fatalistic sense; we’re constantly making choices. With the breaths we take every day, with the expression in our eyes, with the daily actions we do over and over, we decide as though by instinct. And so some of us will inevitably find ourselves rolling around in a puddle on some roof in a strange place with a takeout katsudon in the middle of winter, looking up at the night sky, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Ah, but the moon was lovely.

I stood up and knocked on Yuichi’s window.

I waited for a response for what seemed like a pretty long time. The cold was beginning to penetrate through my wet pants when the light popped on in the room and Yuichi appeared, looking scared to death.

Only the upper half of my body was visible over the ledge. Yuichi stared at me, his eyes perfect circles. “Mikage?” His lips formed my name. I knocked again and nodded, yes. Flustered, he opened the window. I stretched out a frozen hand and he pulled me in.

I blinked, my eyes unaccustomed to the sudden light. The room was so warm it was like another world. In bits and pieces, my scattered mind and body seemed to become one again.

“I came to deliver a katsudon,” I said. “It didn’t seem fair that only I should get to eat, the katsudon was so delicious.”

I took it from my backpack.

The fluorescent light shone on the new green tatami mat. The television was on, the sound low. The covers on the futon from which Yuichi had just risen still bore the shape of his body.

“Something like this happened to us before,” said Yuichi. “Our dream conversation. Isn’t this like that?”

I laughed. “Shall we sing the song? The two of us, together?” The moment I saw Yuichi I lost all sense of reality. Suddenly all the time we’d spent together, even the fact that we’d lived in the same place, seemed like a far-off dream. Yuichi was not in this world now. His cold eyes frightened me.

“Yuichi, could you make some tea? But then I have to get going again.” Even if this is a dream, I wanted to add.

“Sure,” he said, picking up the thermos of hot water and the teapot. He made tea. I drank it, holding the cup in both hands. Relief at last. I was coming back to life.

Then I became aware of the heavy atmosphere in the room. I felt that I was inside Yuichi’s nightmare, and that if I stayed here too long I, too, would become a part of it, destined to be snuffed out in the gloom. I didn’t know if it was either a hazy intuition or fate. I said, “Yuichi, you don’t really want to go back, do you? You’re trying to separate yourself from the strange life you’ve been living, you’re trying to start over. It’s no good lying to me. I know it.” Although my words were spoken in utter desperation, I was strangely calm. “But right now there’s this katsudon. Go ahead, eat it.”

In the ensuing silence, I felt my chest compress so tightly that it made me want to cry. With downcast eyes, Yuichi guiltily took the katsudon. But in that tomblike atmosphere we got a boost from something I could not have foreseen.

“Mikage, what happened to your hand?” said Yuichi, noticing my wound.

I smiled and showed him my palm. “Oh, it’s nothing. Come on, eat at least a little of that before it gets cold.”

Although he still looked as if he didn’t understand what was happening, he said, “Yes, this looks great.” He removed the lid and began to eat the katsudon the counterman had packaged so carefully. My spirits began to lift; I had done all I could.

I knew it: the glittering crystal of all the good times we’d had, which had been sleeping in the depths of memory, was awakening and would keep us going. Like a blast of fresh wind, the richly perfumed breath of those days returned to my soul.

More family memories.

Yuichi and I playing computer games one night while we waited for Eriko to come home. After that, sleepy-eyed, the three of us going out for egg and vegetable pancakes. A hilarious comic book Yuichi had given me to keep me from dying of boredom at work. Eriko, reading it, laughing till she cried. The smell of omelets one sunny Sunday morning. The feeling of a blanket being gently pulled over me while I slept on the floor. The swish of Eriko’s skirt as she walked—me barely awake, following her slender legs through half-open eyes. Yuichi bringing a drunken Eriko home in the car, the two of them walking up to the door, their arms around each other. The day of a summer festival, Eriko tightening my obi with a jerk; the color of a red dragonfly dancing in a frenzy in the evening air that night.

Truly happy memories always live on, shining. Over time, one by one, they come back to life. The meals we ate together, numberless afternoons and evenings.

When was it that Yuichi said to me, “Why is it that everything I eat when I’m with you is so delicious?”

I laughed. “Could it be that you’re satisfying hunger and lust at the same time?”

“No way, no way, no way!” he said, laughing. “It must be because we’re family.”

Even in the absence of Eriko, a lighthearted mood had been reestablished between us. Yuichi eating his katsudon, me drinking my tea, the darkness no longer harboring death. And so it was all right again.

I stood up. “Well, I’ll be going back now.”

“Back?” Yuichi looked surprised. “Where to? Where did you come from?”

“You’re right,” I teased, wrinkling my nose. “If I tell you, this night will become reality.” But I couldn’t stop myself. “I came here from Izu in a taxi. You see, Yuichi, how much I don’t want to lose you. We’ve been very lonely, but we had it easy. Because death is so heavy—we, too young to know about it, couldn’t handle it. After this you and I may end up seeing nothing but suffering, difficulty, and ugliness, but if only you’ll agree to it, I want for us to go on to more difficult places, happier places, whatever comes, together. I want you to make the decision after you’re completely better, so take your time thinking about it. In the meantime, though, don’t disappear on me.”

Yuichi put down his chopsticks and looked straight into my eyes. “This is the best katsudon I’ve ever had in my life,” he said. “It’s incredibly delicious.”

“Yes.” I smiled.

“Overall, I’ve been pretty cold, haven’t I? It’s just that I wanted you to see me when I’m feeling more manly, when I’m feeling strong.”

“Will you tear a telephone book in half for me?”

“That’s it. Or maybe pick up a car and throw it.”

“Or smash a truck against a wall with your bare hands.”

“Just your average tough-guy stuff.” Yuichi’s smiling face seemed to sparkle. I knew I had touched something inside him.

“Okay, I’ll be going now. The taxi’s going to abandon me.” With that I headed for the door.

“Mikage.”

I turned around.

“Take care of yourself.”

Smiling, I waved good-bye, then unbolted the door, let myself out, and ran for the taxi.

Back at the inn, the heat in my room still on, I burrowed under the covers and fell asleep, dead to the world.

I awoke with a start to the pit-a-pat of slippers and the voices of the inn employees in the hall. The world had undergone a complete change. Outside the large, modern windows, a strong wind raged, chased by dense gray clouds heavy with snow.

The night before seemed like a dream. I stood up sleepily and turned on the lights. Dancing snowflakes scattered over the mountains, clearly visible from the window. The trees swayed and roared. The overheated room was bright white.

I crawled back under the covers, still staring at that cold-looking, powerful snowstorm outside. My cheeks burned.

Eriko was no more.

Watching that scene, I really knew it for the first time. No matter how it turned out with Yuichi and me, no matter how long or how beautiful a life I would live, I would never see her again.

Chilled-looking people walking along the riverside, the snow beginning, faintly, to pile up on the roofs of cars, the bare trees shaking their heads left and right, dry leaves tossing in the wind. The silver of the metal window sash sparkling coldly.

Soon after, I heard Sensei call, “Mikage! Are you awake? It’s snowing, look! It’s snowing!”

“I’m coming!” I called out, standing up. I got dressed to begin another day. Over and over, we begin again.

The last day, we went to a hotel in Shimoda to sample French cuisine. They threw us a fabulous banquet that night.

Why was it that the entire group was made up of people who went to bed so early? For me, a night owl, this would not do. After they all dispersed to their rooms, I went for a walk on the beach outside the hotel.

Even wrapped in my coat and wearing two pairs of stockings, I was so cold I wanted to scream. On my way out I had bought a hot can of coffee from the vending machine, and now I was carrying it in my pocket. It was very hot.

I stood on a seawall and looked down at the foggy mass of white over the beach. The sea was jet black, from time to time fringed with a lacy, flickering light.

As the cold wind raged around me, the night seemed to echo in my head. I continued down the darkened steps toward the water. The frozen sand crunched beneath my feet. I walked far up the beach, beside the ocean, sipping my coffee.

The endless sea was shrouded in darkness. I could see the shadowy forms of gigantic, rugged crags against which the waves were crashing. While watching them, I felt a strange, sweet sadness. In the biting air I told myself, there will be so much pleasure, so much suffering. With or without Yuichi.

The beacon of the faraway lighthouse revolved. It turned to me, then it turned away, forming a pathway of light on the waves.

Nodding to myself, my nose dripping, I returned to my room. I took a hot shower while I waited for the tea water to boil. As I was sitting up in bed in my warm, fresh pajamas, the phone rang. When I answered it, the person at the desk said, “You have a telephone call. Please hold.”

I looked down at the garden outside the window, the dark lawn, then the white gates. Beyond that was the cold beach I had just come from, and the black, undulating sea. I could hear the waves.

“Hello.” Yuichi’s voiced popped up. “Tracked you down at last. It wasn’t easy.”

“Where are you calling from?” I asked, laughing. My heart was slowly beginning to relax.

“Tokyo,” said Yuichi. I had a feeling that was the entire answer.

“Today was our last day, you know. I’m coming back tomorrow.”

“Did you eat a lot of good things?”

“Yes. Sashimi, prawns, wild boar. Today was French. I think I’ve gained a little weight. That reminds me, I sent a package jam-packed with wasabi pickle, eel pies, and tea by express mail to my apartment. You can go pick it up if you like.”

“Why didn’t you send sashimi and prawns?”

“Because there’s no way to send them!” I laughed.

Yuichi sounded happy. “Too bad—I’m picking you up at the station tomorrow, so you could have carried them with you. What time are you getting in?”

The room was warm, filling with steam from the boiling water. I launched into what time I’d be in and what platform I’d be on.