Just once, Nishino and I had embraced. It wasn’t as though we embraced because we loved each other—no, not like that. We were preparing for the school culture festival, and a ladder fell in my direction, but Nishino was able to brace it with his back—and in that instant, we ended up in each other’s arms. Everyone in the class cheered, though that’s all there was to it. Nishino’s breath was warm, and I didn’t find it unpleasant to be held by him. But it was only a moment.
Now Nishino was sitting on the rock—my rock—beside the magnolia tree, with a woman. Not a girl, but a woman. A pale woman with short hair.
I let out a little cry. Not because Nishino was sitting in my spot, or because he was there with a woman.
It was because the woman next to Nishino looked exactly like my mother.
Hearing the sound of my cry, both Nishino and the woman slowly turned their heads. Their motions were perfectly in sync. It was as if a single puppet master were manipulating the movements of two dolls.
Now that she was turned toward me, the woman’s face looked nothing like my mother’s.
“Oh, Yamagata,” Nishino said. His voice did not sound all that surprised.
The woman smiled in my direction and then turned back to Nishino. “A friend of yours?” she asked.
“A girl from my class,” Nishino replied curtly.
It was true that I was a girl from his class, yet I felt slightly miffed. Surely there was another way of saying it, wasn’t there? He had barged into my vacant lot, and he was just going to dismiss me as “a girl from his class”?
“What are you doing here?” I asked as coolly as I could manage.
“Nothing much,” Nishino said, standing up. The woman stood, following suit. As before, when they had both turned toward me, their movements were beautifully in sync with one another.
“I’m leaving,” the woman said softly, with a gentle touch of her fingers on Nishino’s shoulder. The gesture was so light, I couldn’t tell whether she actually touched him or not. Yet, to my eye, the movement of the woman’s fingers appeared to blaze a pure white trail in the air. The trail went beyond Nishino’s shoulder and left a distinct afterimage.
“See you later.” She turned nimbly and left.
Nishino and I stood where we were, watching after her.
“Nishino, do you live around here?” I asked.
Nishino hadn’t moved from where he stood, so I stayed in place too. We had been standing there for several minutes in silence—or maybe it was only a few seconds, I really couldn’t tell.
“No.” Nishino’s reply was short. His voice sounded rather grown-up. It was completely different from that of other boys like Toru Tanabe. I must have heard Nishino’s voice in class before, though I didn’t have a clear recollection of what it might have sounded like. But this was definitely the first time I had heard this tone in his voice.
“Do you . . . come here a lot?”
Nishino offered no reply. He wasn’t avoiding the question—it seemed more likely my words hadn’t reached his ears. I strode over to my rock beside the magnolia tree where Nishino and the woman had been sitting, and with a certain roughness reclaimed my place. Nishino was watching my movements vacantly.
“Yamagata, you live ‘round here?” Nishino asked after a while. His voice was different now. The voice he had been using until just a few moments ago was gone. He sounded like a totally normal eighth-grade boy, half child and half adult, uncertain, in the midst of breaking through adolescence.
“Just down the block,” I answered.
Nishino sat down in the weeds. The foxtails yielded, pinned under Nishino, right about where I had buried the boxwood comb.
I felt a shiver. Within the darkness beneath Nishino lay the rotting boxwood comb. The feeling was unlike fear, or pleasure, or disgust, or sadness. Various things came together and mingled in the shiver that went through me.
A dragonfly flitted through the air. As I watched, it multiplied into several dragonflies, and then they disappeared, only to multiply again.
“I’m leaving,” Nishino said suddenly and stood up. Several small seeds from the grass were stuck to the trousers of his school uniform.
“Goodbye,” I said, still sitting on my rock.
“Goodbye,” Nishino said.
Nishino left, the grass seeds still attached to his trousers.
The next day, I saw Nishino in class, but neither one of us made eye contact. We didn’t speak to each other either. At that point, I had barely ever spoken to Nishino in the classroom before.
Come to think of it, before Toko started going out with Kitabayashi, she actually had a little crush on Nishino. She was always keen to talk about him. Nishino, for his part, seemed uninterested in Toko. Chie used to tease Toko, saying, “What do you see in that guy Nishino?” But I thought I detected a note of bitterness in Chie’s voice. I sometimes wondered if Chie may have also had a thing for Nishino, but of course I never brought it up.
Before long, Toko got together with Kitabayashi, and Nishino was no longer a topic of conversation.
That day, I followed Nishino’s movements out of the corner of my eye. Nishino hardly talked at all. Even when he was within a scrum of boys who were all chatting away, all he ever contributed was the occasional response—“Yeah” or “No” or “Uh-huh.” He never initiated anything. He would laugh along with everyone else, and if anyone asked him something, he would answer with a minimum of words.
But oddly, despite his reticence, Nishino did not come across as unsociable. With just a simple nod, he managed to give the impression to whoever he was talking to that he had actually responded at length.
A strange air drifted about Nishino. An air that none of the other kids in class had. I had the impression that, if I were to try to push that air around, there would be no end to it. The more I tried to push it, the deeper I would get caught up in it. And no matter how hard I pushed, I still would never reach Nishino on the other side. Nevertheless, there was something gentle and warm and pleasant about that air. And, imperceptibly, it seemed to create the illusion that the air itself was Nishino, instead of the person.
Toru Tanabe and I were on our third film appreciation date. “Film appreciation” was what Toru Tanabe had decided to call it. I did not dislike the phrase.
The first time I went out with Toru Tanabe, we saw a movie and went to a coffee shop, where we drank juice. Then we stopped at a bookstore where Toru Tanabe showed me the wireless radio magazine that he bought each month, before going home. The second time, we saw a movie and drank coffee at the coffee shop, then we stopped at the model train shop where Toru Tanabe showed me the model train set that he was hoping to assemble. Toru Tanabe said he was an “HO scaler,” but I had no idea what he was talking about. The third time was also a film appreciation date, as Toru Tanabe had dubbed it.
“Girls usually find boys like me boring,” Toru Tanabe had said the second time we went out.
“Really?” I replied—I didn’t think he was boring at all.
“Seems like it to me,” Toru Tanabe answered, giving the backpack over his shoulder a jolt. He was always carrying a large brown backpack. It was heavy. Once I had held it for him, and had been surprised by how heavy it was.
Toru Tanabe did not have the same air as Nishino. The air around Toru Tanabe was like that of a clear fresh morning in the highlands.
“Wireless devices must be expensive?” I asked on our second date.
“They are,” Toru Tanabe confirmed.
“It’s nice of your family to buy them for you,” I said.
Toru Tanabe smiled. “I get my older brother’s cast-offs,” he explained.
Toru Tanabe’s older brother was in graduate school, studying in architecture. “Yamagata, what do you want to do when you grow up?” Toru Tanabe asked. I thought about it for a moment, but absolutely nothing came to mind. I couldn’t thin
k of a single thing I wanted to do, nor wanted to be.
I had fallen silent. Toru Tanabe stared at me and scratched the top of his head.
“I always ask this question right away, and that must be why they say I’m boring.” Toru Tanabe looked down at me—he was a whole head taller.
“No, that’s not why. It’s just that I can’t think of anything,” I replied.
Toru Tanabe squinted. “Yamagata, you’re really nice,” he said, and then he blushed.
Toru Tanabe had got it wrong. I really just couldn’t think of anything. Absolutely nothing that I wanted to do. There were plenty of things that I didn’t want to do. Like torment animals. Or be jealous of other people’s happiness. Or cut my hair short. Or obey unreasonable orders. Or wear pastel-colored dresses. The list went on and on.
After we had conducted our third film appreciation and gone again to the coffee shop, where we drank tea, instead of stopping by the bookstore or the model train shop, Toru Tanabe and I went to a park. He whistled as we walked around the park. I had to walk briskly to match his pace. His legs were longer than mine, and he was a fast walker.
When we arrived at the fountain, Toru Tanabe stopped whistling. There was a small grove of trees by the side of the fountain. Toru Tanabe walked in front of me and started to head into the trees. I broke into a trot to keep up with him.
Once we got to a spot where we were sort of hidden, Toru Tanabe came suddenly to a halt. Since I had been running, I almost collided with him from behind. He spun around and looked down at my face. There were faint beads of sweat on his forehead.
“Can I kiss you?” Toru Tanabe asked.
I said yes—it wasn’t as if I hadn’t expected it. In fact, I had, and yet I didn’t know what to do now. I didn’t know whether I wanted to kiss Toru Tanabe or not. When I didn’t say anything more, he stooped down and lifted my chin with his hand.
“No,” I said reflexively.
In that instant, Toru Tanabe let go of my chin and said softly, “Sorry.”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” I replied, hastily turning my face toward him. I closed my eyes and waited for Toru Tanabe’s kiss.
But his kiss never came. Through half-closed eyes, I peeked at him. Toru Tanabe was looking off toward the fountain.
“Sorry,” I repeated, opening my eyes.
“You don’t have to say you’re sorry,” Toru Tanabe said, and he patted me on the shoulder.
“Maybe it was too soon,” Toru Tanabe said after we had emerged from the trees. Then, with a troubled look, he gave a little laugh.
“No, that’s not why,” I replied, my face serious, and soon the two of us were laughing together.
“It might have been a little early,” I said, still laughing.
We walked home along the path through the park, side by side. Can I hold your hand? Toru Tanabe asked, and I nodded. He slowed his pace. Now I didn’t have to hurry.
Toru Tanabe saw me to the front door of my house. “Goodbye. See you later,” I said.
Toru Tanabe smiled. “See you later,” he said.
I stood by the gate and watched his figure retreat, wondering to myself if I liked Toru Tanabe. I did like him. But whether I would learn to like kissing Toru Tanabe, that I didn’t know.
I sort of felt like crying. I remembered the list of things I didn’t want to do, from when Toru Tanabe had asked me about what I wanted to do in the future.
I didn’t want to grow up. More than anything else, I was afraid of growing up and, without even knowing it, becoming exactly like my mother.
For the first time in a while, the day after my third date with Toru Tanabe, I went to the vacant lot.
I had kept my distance from it, ever since I happened to see Nishino and the woman there. I may not have admitted to myself that I didn’t want to see the place where they were together, but I was well enough aware that there was something in the depths of my mind that kept me away.
The weeds were a little sparser. It was almost the middle of autumn. The leaves hadn’t yet begun to change color, but there were lots of acorns on the ground. The dragonflies were gone and there was only the faint chirping of insects in the grass.
Walking past my seat on the rock beside the magnolia tree, I went further in, where even more acorns had fallen, and sat down on a tree stump. The frog figurine was buried near its roots. My mother had had that frog figurine since before she was married. She had told me at some point, secretly, that an old boyfriend had given it to her. The frog figurine was made of striped agate and fit in the palm of my hand.
Some time after my mother left, my father got rid of my mother’s belongings, but still, every so often things of hers would appear in unexpected places. The frog figurine had been hidden at the back of a shelf filled with albums. When I found the frog, I placed it in my palm. The striped agate felt cool to the touch. I had gone straight to the vacant lot, and buried it carefully.
I sat on the tree stump and waited. Somehow, I had the feeling that Nishino would show up. I was sure that Nishino, since seeing me here, had been to the vacant lot several times with that woman. I knew that it probably made no difference to the two of them whether I was here or not. No one needed to tell me—it had been obvious from the way they had been when I saw them.
After a little while, Nishino and the woman arrived. Quietly, they sat down on the rock beside the magnolia tree. I held my breath and watched them.
The two of them were saying something and looking into each other’s eyes. It didn’t seem as though what they were saying was deeply meaningful or anything. But the two of them did not need to use words. With the sound of a mere sigh, they could communicate all they needed to say.
The insects were buzzing. I had turned into one of the grasses growing in the vacant lot. One of the grasses swaying in the gentle breeze, just listening to the sounds that filled the air.
The woman made a slight movement and touched Nishino’s arm. As before, her gesture appeared to blaze a pure white trail in the air. A single line, drawn amid the grass. The woman guided Nishino’s arm to the fabric of her blouse. Nishino allowed her to do this, and then he began to undo the buttons on her blouse, one at a time from the top. Her white bra became visible. Her breasts were large and round. These ample breasts seemed to contrast with the desolation in her face.
“Will you?” I thought I heard the woman say, but it may have been my imagination. Nishino unhooked the woman’s bra. The moment he did so, the woman’s breasts filled the air around her. They spilled over into it.
“They hurt,” the woman said. This time, I heard her clearly.
With her own finger, the woman pressed lightly on a nipple and a white liquid spurted out. Nishino was staring quietly. The woman pressed on her nipples several more times. Sprays of white soared through the air, like water gushing from a tap.
“They hurt. Please,” the woman said.
Slowly, Nishino bent down and brought his lips to the woman’s breast. Nishino drew in his cheeks and suckled intently. His profile was beautiful. Even more than usual, his face looked like that of a child. This is how an infant suckles, I thought to myself. The woman’s eyes were closed. Her face was expressionless, she just closed her eyes.
Once Nishino had finished one breast, he brought his face to the other. When he had finished with that one, Nishino pulled his face away and asked the woman, “Better?”
“Thank you,” the woman said. Then she stood up rather casually, and left.
Nishino did not go after the woman. He remained seated on the rock beside the magnolia tree. I too sat very still on the tree stump. The sun began to set, and dusk fell around us. The next thing I knew, my cheeks were wet with tears.
I was shivering. This shiver was different from the one I had felt when Nishino was sitting on the spot where I had buried the boxwood comb.
It was beautiful.
The sight of Nishino’s face at the woman’s breast, as he suckled intently—that had been quite beautiful. Nishino and the woman, the air surrounding the two of them, everything about it. At some point I must have begun sobbing. Much louder than the insects chirping in the clump of grass where I sat, I was now wailing the way I had when A-suke and B-maru died. Nishino was standing near me.
“Yamagata!” he said. Not with his grown-up voice, but with his eighth-grade voice.
“Yamagata, you should be ashamed,” Nishino said. I tried to stop, but I was still sniffling.
Nishino stood where he was, not saying anything more until I had composed myself.
“That was my sister,” he explained.
She was much older—a full twelve years—and just the other day her six-month-old baby had died, Nishino said softly.
It was her first child. Right after the funeral, his sister had taken to her bed. Her nerves were frayed. She couldn’t be alone at home. She was wracked with anxiety unless someone was by her side at all times.
But even bed- and anxiety-ridden, she continued to produce milk—her breasts were full to bursting. Whenever she thought about the child she had lost, the milk would leak out. Going out soothed her anxiety somewhat. Seeing trees and grass and earth seemed to calm her.
“But once my sister had calmed down, she whispered to me, ‘I just want to die,’” Nishino told me. Astonished, I looked up at him. Nishino’s expression was composed.
“But,” I stammered, and Nishino shook his head.
“That was my sister’s way of trying to say, It would be better that way.”
She can’t find the words when there’s so much sorrow. The same way that her breasts are tight and swollen with milk and she can barely stand the pain, all these thoughts in her head solidify in her body. It’s agonizing. When the milk spurts out, the words burst from her lips—it’s like something hardened has come loose, and she feels somewhat more at peace.
“Nishino, are you . . . in love with your sister?” I asked gingerly.
The Ten Loves of Nishino Page 3
