On my days off it had been my habit—not necessarily with the intention of running into Sensei—to stroll along the river on my way to the market by the station. However, if I was trying not to see him, then I ought not to stroll at all. This put me at a loss as to how to spend my leisure time.
For a while, I tried taking the train to go see a movie or going downtown to shop for clothes or shoes.
But I simply felt out of sorts. The weekend cinema that smelled like popcorn, the stale air of a brightly lit department store on a summer evening, the chilly bustle at the register of a big bookstore—it was all too much for me. I felt as if I couldn’t breathe.
I even tried taking weekend trips on my own. I bought a book, Suburban Hot Spring Hotels: Travel Without an Itinerary, and proceeded to visit several of these places “itinerantly.”
Times had changed—nowadays, hotels didn’t seem to consider a woman traveling alone unusual. They briskly escorted me to my room, briskly instructed me where the dining room and the bath were located, and briskly indicated when checkout time was.
I had no other choice, and once I had briskly used the bath, briskly finished my dinner, and briskly taken another bath, there was nothing else to do. I briskly went to bed, briskly left the next morning, and that was all there was to it.
Up until now, I thought I had enjoyed my life alone, somehow.
I quickly lost interest in the “itinerant” travel, and seeing as how I couldn’t take evening walks by the river, I sprawled around my apartment, thinking to myself.
But had I really enjoyed living life on my own until now?
Joyful. Painful. Pleasant. Sweet. Bitter. Sour. Ticklish. Itchy. Cold. Hot. Lukewarm.
Just what kind of life had I lived? I wondered.
While I contemplated these things, I became sleepy. Since I was already sprawled on the floor, my eyes soon grew heavy.
Resting on a cushion I had folded in half, I slipped off into sleep. A gentle breeze drifted in through the screen door and washed over me. Off in the distance, I could hear the hum of cicadas.
But why was I avoiding Sensei? I wondered, on the verge of sleep, the stray thought arriving drowsily, like in a dream. In my dream, I was walking on a dusty white road. Where was Sensei? I looked for him, the cicadas’ call raining down on me from above as I kept walking along the white road.
I couldn’t seem to find Sensei.
That’s right, I had put him away in a box. Now I remembered.
I had wrapped Sensei neatly in a piece of silk cloth with French seams and put him into a big paulownia wood box, which I then tucked away in the closet.
I couldn’t take Sensei back out now. The closet was too deep. And the silk cloth was so nice and cool, Sensei would want to stay wrapped up in it. He would just keep dozing in the dusk inside the box.
I continued to stride along the white road while I thought about Sensei, lying in the box with his eyes open. The cicadas bombarded me from above with their maddening drone.
I saw Takashi Kojima for the first time in a while. He told me that he had been away on a month-long business trip. He had brought me back a heavy metal nutcracker “as a souvenir,” he said.
“Where did you go?” I asked, opening and closing the nutcracker.
“Here and there around the western part of the States,” Kojima replied.
“Here and there?” I smiled as I repeated his words, and Kojima smiled too.
“Towns whose name I’m sure you’ve never heard of, sweetheart.”
I pretended not to notice that he had called me sweetheart.
“What kind of work were you doing in these towns that I haven’t heard of?”
“Oh, well, this and that.”
Kojima’s arms were tanned.
“Looks like you got some American sun,” I said, and Kojima nodded.
“But if you think about it, there is no such thing as American sun or Japanese sun. There’s only one sun, of course.”
I stared distractedly at Kojima’s arms while snapping the nutcracker open and shut. There’s only one sun, of course. I could imagine my mind spinning off from his words and getting all sentimental, but I stopped myself.
“Lately, you know…”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been itinerant, this summer.”
“Itinerant?”
“Yes, itinerant, going here and there.”
How genteel, I envy you, Kojima said without hesitation.
Oh, yes, quite genteel, I replied, just as readily.
In the ambient lighting of Bar Maeda, the nutcracker shone dully. Kojima and I each drank two bourbon and sodas. We paid our bill and climbed the stairs. Standing on the top step, lightly but formally, we shook hands. Then, lightly but formally, we kissed.
“You seem like you’re somewhere else,” Kojima said.
“Like I said, I’ve been itinerant lately,” I replied, and Kojima tilted his head.
“What does that mean, sweetheart?”
“The ‘sweetheart’ bit sounds quite odd to me.”
“I don’t think so,” Kojima said.
“I do,” I retorted, and Kojima laughed.
“Summer will be over soon.”
“Yes, soon it will be.”
We shook hands again, formally, and then went our separate ways.
“TSUKIKO, IT’S BEEN a while,” Satoru said.
It was already past ten o’clock. This was about the time for last call at Satoru’s place. I hadn’t been there in two months.
I was on my way home from a farewell party for my boss, who was retiring. Even drunker than usual, I was feeling uninhibited. It’s been two months, everything should be all right, my inebriated mind told me.
“It’s been a long time.” My voice sounded more high-pitched than usual.
“What can I get you?” Satoru asked, looking up from his chopping block.
“Chilled saké. And edamame.”
“All right, then,” Satoru replied, looking down again at the chopping block.
There were no other customers at the counter. The only other people were two couples sitting quietly across from each other at the tables.
I sipped the chilled saké. Satoru was silent. The baseball scores were on the radio broadcast.
“The Giants came from behind, huh,” Satoru muttered, as if to himself. I scanned around the bar. There were a few forgotten umbrellas in the umbrella stand. It hadn’t rained at all for the past several days.
A chirping rose up from the area around my feet. I had thought the noise was part of the sports broadcast, but now it seemed like the sound of an insect. Chirp, chirp, it called. Then it would stop. Just when you thought it was done, the chirping would start up again.
“There’s an insect…,” I said when Satoru handed me a steaming plate of edamame.
“Must be a cricket. It’s been there since this morning,” Satoru replied.
“You mean here inside the bar?”
“Yeah, it seems like one got in somewhere around the concrete drain.”
The cricket’s chirping was almost keeping time with Satoru’s voice.
“Sensei said he had a cold. I wonder if he’s all right.”
“What?”
“He came in last week, in the early evening, with a hell of a cough. And I haven’t seen him since,” Satoru said, chopping on his block.
“He hasn’t been in at all?” I asked. My voice was unpleasantly shrill. It sounded to me like someone else talking.
“Nope.”
The cricket was chirping. I could hear the thumping of my own heartbeat. I sat and listened to the sound of blood coursing through my body. The palpitations gradually quickened.