The Night Is Short, Walk on Girl

by Tomihiko Morimi

  “Bravo!”

  Rihaku stood up out of his cane chair with a huge smile. He flourished his fan.

  I sank to the ground. When he approached me, the chili-pepper-covered python poking its head out of the fire hot pot turned toward him and flapped its jaws. I heard a tiny voice.

  “What?”

  When Rihaku leaned an ear toward it in amusement, the snake said the following in a withered voice: “Sometimes, cruelly, god releases used books into the world. Imprudent collectors, beware!”

  Rihaku looked at the snake like What the hell? as it bit into his yukata. He whacked it in the head with his fan before shrieking, “You bastard! You bastard!” and something large fell from the ceiling. It was one of the things physically raising the room’s temperature, the kotatsu chandelier.

  “Waagh!” As we were screaming beneath the fallen kotatsu, a triumphant voice rang out.

  “So we meet again.”

  When I looked toward the sound, I saw that pretty boy standing next to Rihaku’s black-lacquer bookcase. All the books had disappeared. The boy was cradling the Keifuku Electric Railroad Research Society student’s Duralumin trunk.

  “Well then, everyone, good day.”

  He made a splendid leap over Rihaku, who was moaning after being hit square in the head by the table, and eluded my arms as I tried to grab him. Then he booted the defeated contestants out of his way and raced out of the room like a little trickster.

  “Give me my future back!” I cried. I tried to get up, but I knocked over the fire hot pot instead.

  Rihaku finally crawled out from under the kotatsu, but I was in too much pain to stand and was busy dunking my face in ice water repeatedly to lower my body temperature.

  He looked at his little black-lacquer bookcase. One thin booklet remained. It was the volume given to him by the woman in Japanese dress. He picked it up and frowned at the cover.

  I finally managed to stand up and joined him in his examination.

  When he opened the traditionally bound volume, the inside was white paper. It was just page after page of thin blank paper.

  The Daruma doll–shaped heater before our eyes began to sing. Eventually, as if it were written in heat-sensitive ink, a string of characters appeared on its pages.

  What an unending delight it is to liberate books from villainous collectors. Repent now, for I am the God of Used Bookfairs.

  Rihaku approached a window and raised its black curtain. As each of the windows was opened in turn, the evening breeze blew in, as invigorating as a highland wind. As it flowed through the room, the people lying on the carpet began to move around.

  He stood right in the middle of them as they squirmed. “Gentlemen,” he addressed them. “The books for which you abandoned both pride and appearances were just now released by the God of Used Bookfairs to the fair. If you’re lucky, you may encounter them again someday.”

  Unable to process that information, everyone sat dazed on the red carpet.

  “I’ll pray for your luck. This is the end of today’s event.” Rihaku brought the sale to a close.

  After a little while, the face of the elderly scholar sitting on the red carpet flushed, and he shouted, “So it’s out there somewhere in the bookfair? Yes, I see,” and practically tripped over himself racing out of the room. The owner of Chitoseya and the Keifuku Electric Railroad Research Society student followed closely after him.

  Higuchi was the only one who stood leisurely, said, “Phew, I’m full,” and walked off seeming satisfied. He apparently thought getting a meal was a plus, even if it was a hellish fire hot pot. “Though I do feel like flames are about to shoot out of my ass.” He walked away clenching his butt.

  “This is the only book I can offer you,” Rihaku said, holding out the traditionally bound volume, but I declined.

  “Are you fine with your books being stolen like that?” I asked.

  “It was the work of the God of Used Bookfairs, so there’s nothing I can do about it. I had my fun.” Rihaku scoffed. “Books? I’ll give you as many as you want.”

  I left Rihaku and found my way through the long, eerie corridor of bookshelves. When I exited into the dark bookstore, I noticed the proprietor with the black glasses had fallen out of his chair, asleep and snoring up a storm. Ramune soda bottles were scattered next to him.

  I want soda! my throat cried.

  I broke into a run and saw the fair was bathed in indigo dusk. I was amazed that summer in Kyoto could feel this cool. This was the first day I was ever moved to tears by a mere change in temperature. My sweat, which was pure water by now, evaporated instantaneously in the evening breeze.

  Another summer day was ending. Some small groups were heading home, but there were still many people sticking around. I ran through the fair looking for that boy. On the way, my throat got so dry I couldn’t bear it any longer, so I stopped to buy a Ramune soda. Ramune is like all the refreshing parts of summer concentrated into one delicious flavor. This was the first day I was ever moved to tears by a mere soda.

  Crying, drinking, choking, I ran through the fair.

  I saw a familiar-looking woman in Japanese dress. She was sitting on a bench, and though it was getting dark, she persevered with her reading of the complete works of Sakunosuke Oda. Glinting next to her was what looked to be the Duralumin trunk, but it was empty.

  When I came up on the shop called Ryokuudo, with my attention finally sharpened by the evening breeze, I caught sight of the boy. I slipped quietly through the shadows of the bookcases. You malevolent, incorrigible obstructer of love—you demonic criminal! I snarled. I’ll wrap you in a straw mat, light you up, and have a bonfire by the Kamo River.

  In the shadows of a bookshelf, he opened one of the books he was carrying and stuck a price tag on it.

  Then he slipped it onto the shelf.

  “Hey!” I yelled. “You little jerk!”

  When I grabbed his arm, he jumped like a white river fish. He glared up at me as he tried to escape. His eyes seemed to gleam in the darkness.

  “Let me go! I only have one book left.”

  “You already scattered the rest?” I was astounded and felt the strength drain from my body. “Was there a picture book? What happened to that picture book?”

  When my grip loosened, the boy started to run, but then he stopped for just a moment. “Picture books go in the picture book spot. Don’t you even know that much?” With that, he disappeared into the twilight.

  I remembered what Higuchi had said. Somewhere, there was a picture book corner.

  The shopkeeper at Ryokuudo happened to be nearby, so I asked him where it was and set off running.

  As I sprinted through the fair, I saw the Keifuku Electric Railroad Research Society student. “My timetables!” he wailed, getting nasty looks as he ran from bookstore to bookstore. “Where are you?” No sooner had I heard his voice than a figure shoved past me running south like a great gust of wind. It appeared to be that elderly scholar who was fixated on the Kokin Wakashu. “It’s mine. No one else must…,” he mumbled as if he were possessed, and he disappeared into the crowd.

  Obsession is a terrible thing, I thought, purposely shoving happy couples out of my way as I raced with an ogreish grimace on my face toward the picture book corner.

  The used bookfair was definitely starting to radiate that postfestival feel. For some reason, I felt awfully sad, and I trudged along the riding ground.

  That mysterious boy said I would encounter Ra Ta Ta Tam, and that woman in Japanese dress said the same thing, encouraging me. But the sun was going down, and how was I supposed to find it in this ocean of books? Would the God of Used Bookfairs smile down on me?

  I just walked quietly.

  From now on, I’ll make sure to pray to the God of Used Bookfairs. And if I’m not reading a book anymore, I’ll release it back into the world for the next person. I’ll put in the effort so my books can live again. So please, God. I put my palms together and said, “Namu-namu.”

&
nbsp; Passing by tents as they sank into the dusk, I reached the picture book corner.

  I’d looked pretty hard earlier, but on the off chance I might have missed it… The one who believes will find their book! As it grew darker, I carefully scanned the thin spines.

  “Namu-namu,” I was whispering, leaning in, when suddenly a picture book called out to me, glimmering white in one corner of the bookshelf. My heart beat so hard it hurt.

  Namu-namu!

  Entranced, I reached out, and from beside me, another hand stretched out. When I looked up, I saw my clubmate.

  When he saw me, he seemed genuinely surprised and had a funny look on his face. He was working his mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out. Finally, he took a breath and said, “Look!” pointing at Ra Ta Ta Tam. “Better grab it quick!”

  When I picked up the book, he ran off like the wind. I wondered why he’d been so shocked. Was there something weird about my face?

  No, since he was reaching for the book as well, I figured he must have really wanted it, too. Perhaps it’d broken his heart to yield it to me, and he quickly withdrew to ease the pain of abandoning his beloved book? That must be it. What an incredibly gentlemanly thing to do! God, please forgive me for obstructing my clubmate’s path to love. I really owe him now!

  With those thoughts in my mind, I opened the copy of Ra Ta Ta Tam. When I saw what was written on the inside front cover, I was shocked, but eventually, I danced like a bipedal robot.

  I wiped the corners of my eyes.

  Inside Ra Ta Ta Tam, in crude handwriting, was my own name.

  You don’t even have to tell me, wise readers—I know. I’m an incorrigible idiot.

  I scrapped my overly roundabout plan and started fresh with a better one. But I never thought my rejected plan would just happen on its own. God of Used Bookfairs, this is different from what we’d discussed in our meeting! There was no way I could react appropriately. Due to my half-assed preparation, another thing I hadn’t expected was how unbearably embarrassing it was to reach out for the same book.

  How did it look to her when I ran off? I’m sure she thought I was an incomprehensible weirdo bastard.

  “Know shame and perish!”

  As I raced through the chilly night, I groaned. “Namu-namu!”

  I cursed myself, I cursed the used bookfair, and after sulking to the max, I entered a tent illuminated by the orangey glow of a lantern. They were selling The Newly Collected Works of Hyakken Uchida in loose volumes.

  “I’ll take all of these!” I shouted, then stamped in frustration when I realized I didn’t have enough money.

  “How much more do you need?” a voice asked from behind me. I turned to look and found her standing there. “I’ll lend it to you.”

  “No, I’d feel bad.”

  “It’s fine. A chance meeting with a book is once in a lifetime. You have to buy it right in the moment. And I already found what I was looking for,” she rejoiced, showing me the gorgeous snow-white picture book. The title was Ra Ta Ta Tam: The Strange Story of a Little Engine, and it had beautiful, fantastical illustrations. Then she showed me the inside of the cover. On the pure-white paper was her name in a childish scrawl. “I can’t believe I found it here. I’m so grateful. Thank you for letting me have it.”

  Her cheeks curved in a happy smile.

  I borrowed money from her and purchased the collected works of Hyakken Uchida.

  After packing the books into plastic bags, I turned around, but she was gone.

  I left the tent and scanned the dark fairground but only saw people coming and going in the indigo twilight. Then I sauntered off.

  After lending money to my clubmate, I wandered out of the tent. As I was standing there absentmindedly, I saw the lady in Japanese dress who’d been reading the collected works of Sakunosuke Oda pass by with that pretty little boy.

  “Are you happy now?” she asked him, and he nodded.

  “Yeah.”

  I thought to tell the boy I found Ra Ta Ta Tam and went after them, but the pair wound their way through the crowd and disappeared into the night like magic. A pity.

  I sat on a bench and opened up Ra Ta Ta Tam again in my lap.

  It was such a mystery to find this book that I’d loved and then criminally abandoned now back in my hands again. What else could it be but the work of the God of Used Bookfairs? Namu-namu.

  Night was finally falling.

  After a while, my clubmate came thumping along with his bags of collected works. It looked so heavy, I offered to help him carry them.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi,” I said.

  The books must have been as heavy as a pickling stone; he set them down with an oof and sat on the bench.

  The sky was already a deep navy, and the faint vestiges of sunset stained the floating clouds pink.

  Orange lanterns were lit here and there at the bookstores along the riding ground. Though the whole area was dark, as if sunken to the bottom of the sea, people swam from shelf to shelf, relying on what little light was left, searching for the books they pined for. Just as I did a little while ago.

  “Everyone looks like fish at the bottom of the sea,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  A cool evening breeze blew from the north, and a rainbow streamer glided past us.

  The season is late fall.

  Christmas glimmers on the horizon, and the school festival marks the arrival of that dark time of year when confused men rush with obvious intentions to do incomprehensible things.

  The school festival is already such a big, wild stage, and we wander it haphazardly, ready to denounce our interest in it when the mood strikes. Soon we are seized by a self-centered tenacity: Just raise the curtain already—but make sure I look good when you do. And at that moment, we become circumstantialists.

  At the festival, with opportunists working behind the scenes, she unintentionally took on the lead role and raised the curtain on a chaotic play of epic proportions. That rarely seen feat she terms “God’s plot convenience.”

  Surely we and the gods are circumstantialists.

  How did we get this way?

  It was rare for me to attend, but that day, I showed up at the school festival. The autumn wind was blowing leaves around, and the festival felt a bit languid on its last day, but it was still pushing through.

  Whipped by chilly late-autumn gusts, I wandered down the paths of booths set up around the clock tower. This stupid festival fanned out with its main battlefields as Main Campus (particularly by the clock tower), dotted with school buildings, and Yoshida-South Campus across Higashi Ichijo Street… While distinguished individuals gave speeches or participated in debates in a large classroom in the law department, other people tried to cram food of questionable taste and sanitation into the mouths of passersby at the booths around the clock tower. On Yoshida-South Campus, too, underground student merchants listlessly waited for customers in booth after booth. But it wasn’t just students with strong commercial spirit. A flurry of singers and dancers took turns appearing on a special temporary stage, and kids obsessed with theater, producing their own films, or into some other hobby invited people passing by inside to the lecture halls to force their passion on them.

  What were they trying to impart to people at the booths, in the lecture halls, and on the stage? They displayed an excess of free time and futile enthusiasm, and there was nothing whatsoever interesting about that to outsiders; in other words, it was none other than despicable, raw youth.

  The school festival is a black market where youth is sold as a commodity! I thought as much while the cold wind whipped against me.

  Munching a rice ball I bought at a booth called Rice Fundamentalists, I looked up at the clock tower standing tall in the clear sky. Its valiant figure, paying no mind to the idiotic festivities happening at its feet and stretching resolutely toward the heavens in solitude, reminded me of myself as I stood there. Both the clock tower and I honorably isolated
ourselves from the uninhibited ruckus.

  “Comrade! Are you standing at attention?” I called out to the clock tower.

  I’m a man who spends his days worried equally about his country and about his own future, constantly polishing his soul through deep introspection. Does a school festival have anything to do with an aloof philosopher earnestly hoping to be the sort of person who will be up on stage with the whole house applauding, beloved by all, in the not-so-distant future?

  If not, then why did I come here? Because I heard she was coming.

  I got that information from a reliable source.

  She’s a younger member of the club I’m in.

  From that first day we spoke, she had my soul in her clutches; her matchless charm is like the source of the Kamo River—gushing forth, never depleting. Once known as “the most hard-core man’s man in Sakyo and Kamigyo Wards combined,” I was now flailing about, trying to get her to notice me. I dubbed that struggle Operation HEM. That stands for “Operation Her Eyes on Me.”

  The idiots who rush straight for the inner citadel, impatient for a breakthrough, and inevitably die are too numerous to count. Sure, they’re lovable men. But though they have guts, they lack courage. What I mean here by courage is the bravery to possess the sense and conviction to control yourself and endure the long days of persistent effort to fill in the moat. Attacking the inner citadel comes after that.

  That’s why I tried to get her eyes on me as much as possible—on Kiyamachi and Ponto-cho that night and at the Kyoto Antiquarian Bookfair in the summer, as well as within the sphere of our daily activities. At the library, at the university co-op, in the vending machine corner, at Yoshida Shrine, at Demachiyanagi Station, at Hyakumanben Intersection, at Ginkakuji, on the Philosopher’s Walk—we had all sorts of “coincidental” meetings. We’d run into each other far more times than could be chalked up to coincidence—it had reached the point that anyone would agree, You guys must be bound by the red thread of destiny! Even I was beginning to find it suspicious. There was no way I could just happen to be standing on all those street corners at the perfect time. It was all too convenient.