Rejected both from within and without, where was Bunji trying to go? Was he unable to go anywhere, and thus had no choice but to remain here? The expression of Bunji’s eye was stuck fast in the surface of its lens. Clear but at the same time blurred. It was just the same as… whom? Takeru must have known from the start. But he would only realize later that every time a word for that person, or an image of them, came into his mind, he tried to get rid of it immediately, as though crumpling up a yellowing scrap of paper on which it had appeared. Takeru seemed to have been given the task of seeing Bunji, even when everyone else’s sight rejected him. Who or what had imposed this duty on him? This place, of course. There was no other possibility. In which case, the place was not necessarily ignoring Bunji, not necessarily rejecting him entirely. Didn’t that make sense? If Takeru could see Bunji so clearly, that meant that the landscape—everything alive and dead from which the landscape was formed—was, to at least a very small degree, yielding to Bunji, yielding something of the outline and density of existence, and so was preventing, if only just, his complete disappearance. Doesn’t that make sense? Yes. It’s a reasonable idea. Bunji faded into the dusk, and then Takeru saw his brother in the darkness instead, asleep on his stomach, his face flat against the tatami mat. The top half of his body was naked, and an ant was crawling up his thin arm. Before any other ants could appear, Takeru opened his eyes. It was only then that he realized they’d been closed.
Takeru had been dreaming of his sleeping brother again, and again it was Bunji’s voice that brought him up from the depths of the dream, so when he opened his eyes he wouldn’t have been surprised to see Bunji’s face. But it was actually Saki who’d woken him, coming through the back door of Mitsuko’s house.
“Oh… Saki,” Takeru said, rubbing his eyes. “What’s up?”
“You promised to play today,” said Saki.
“Oh, I’m sorry!”
Saki smirked.
“What?” Takeru asked.
“Your cheek looks funny. Like it’s been pressed against a tatami mat.”
“I was fast asleep,” said Takeru, not really feeling like he had been.
“And ya got drool down your chin.”
“Do I?” he said, quickly wiping his mouth and chin with his hand.
He remembered that Mitsuko had gone out, leaving a five-hundred-yen coin on the table so that he and Saki could buy some drinks or ice cream. His mother had often left money for him like that when she was busy, back in Akeroma. But that hadn’t been for treats—it had been for meals.
Gripping the coin tight in one hand, Takeru took his FC Barcelona cap from the back of the chair and hurried out after Saki. Bunji shouted from behind, as though pushing him forward.
Get ice cream. Enough for two—for you and your big brother!
Takeru stopped and looked around. That’s nasty, he muttered. Did Bunji hear? Even if he had, he wouldn’t have understood what Takeru meant. But he must have sensed Takeru’s discomfort, because he put one of his big hands over his mouth, and the other went to the top of his head. I want to vanish, the gesture seemed to say. But he didn’t have to vanish. Takeru pulled down the brim of his cap. That always made things he didn’t want to see disappear.
Takeru and Saki went out to the road along the seawall, and soon reached the main highway that ran north-south through Takanoura. There was a good breeze where the roads met, and Takeru thought of old Tsuru holding his glass eye up to the sun. “This spot has the best light in the village,” he had mumbled, his jaw jerking. In the mornings old people could often be seen chatting at the bus stop. They’d be there in the late afternoons too, or they’d go to the seawall before the warmth of the day faded. Whenever he walked past, Takeru was nervous that he might see Tsuru again, but today the sun was still hot and there was nobody around. Now and then a car passed, disturbing the hot, heavy, clinging air. No. What stirred was time, which had been drowsing and had forgotten to move on.
They turned south along the highway and went to the Shudo Gas Station, which had a vending machine—the closest one to Mitsuko’s house. No vehicles were filling up or being washed. There were four or five small cars for sale along the retaining wall on the north side of the station, with prices displayed on their windshields. In the shade against the southern wall were three men as always. Well, they always seemed to be hanging around and chatting when Takeru came by. Not entirely unlike used cars that could find no buyers, they were essential to the way the gas station looked—another part of the scenery his mother hated, detested.
The young man in oil company overalls was Oil Toshi, the heir to the family gas station. He had drooping eyes and buck teeth. Long, dyed-blond hair protruded from his cap. Next to him was a man in a large straw hat, white running shirt, Bermuda shorts, and New Balance sneakers on his bare feet. Takeru knew him well. He was the man in the Hawks baseball cap who’d come to the airport to meet him and Mitsuko. He’d been in elementary school with Yoshio, Mitsuko’s husband. He often dropped by Mitsuko’s house, and had recently brought over a watermelon. Takeru noticed again the long white eyebrows that hung like willow down to his twinkling, mischievous eyes. Looking now at his large nose and eyes, Takeru realized what the man reminded him of. No question: a proboscis monkey. Takeru didn’t know the man’s real name, and like everybody else in the village, called him Hii-chan. In front of the other two was a middle-aged man in a navy T-shirt, tracksuit pants, and white rubber boots. He was tall and well-built, with gleaming eyes. He looked rather like an eagle. Takeru had asked Mitsuko who he was, but he couldn’t remember what she’d said.
“Hey! Takeru and Saki!” said Hii-chan. “What’re you two up to?”
The man in white boots glanced at Takeru.
“Where’d the boy come from?” he asked Hii-chan.
“I told ya ’fore. He’s stayin’ with Mitsuko. Wakako Tobitaka’s son.”
“Her name’s not Tobitaka. It’s Tamura,” said Takeru. He could feel sweat rolling down his face.
“Sorry, Takeru!” said Hii-chan. “Your ma was a Tobitaka ’fore she married—that’s how I ’member her.”
“Wakako’s son?” muttered the man in the white boots, his eyes curious.
For some reason Takeru felt a kind of hostility toward him. He kept his gaze on the ground, scared of catching the man’s eye. At his feet was a dark patch on the concrete. It seemed to stick like glue to the soles of his shoes, not letting him move. It wasn’t oil, though. It was his shadow.
“He’s here for the summer,” said Oil Toshi, coming to Takeru’s rescue. “Third grade, ain’t ya?”
“He’s a fourth grader. Isn’t that right, Takeru?” Saki said.
“Isn’t that right,” said Toshi, imitating her. “You sound like a girl from Tokyo!”
Saki smiled, embarrassed.
“Anyway, Saki,” Toshi continued, “it’s good that you’re friends with Takeru. There ain’t that many kids your age at school, are there? They put the grades together for classes, right? Won’t be long ’til they close the school completely.”
“We ain’t the same age,” Saki corrected him. “I told you ’fore—Takeru’s a fourth grader. I’m in second grade.”
“Oh, sorry,” said Toshi. “You’re so tall, nobody’d think ya were in second grade.”
“Wakako’s son…” said the man in white boots again.
The man’s boots weren’t, in fact, white. They were streaked with brown dirt. Takeru was still looking down, his gaze now fixed on the man’s boots, white but not white. He didn’t miss the momentary wince in the man’s eyes, though. He didn’t see it, but he knew it was there.