“If only one could live on spirit alone,” said Tsugumi, grinning back.
All summer long, Tsugumi was just as lovely as she could be. Something inside her kept creating an endless number of these moments—scenes when the whole world would have caught its breath at the sight of her, and stood staring, utterly enchanted. The contented smile that lit up her face seemed as pure and rare as the final flurry of spring snow on a mountaintop.
“You know how everything looks really weird when you’ve got a fever? Don’t you think it’s kind of fun?” Tsugumi narrowed her eyes a little as she spoke. There was something strangely gentle in her expression. She seemed like some tiny creature delighted to have found itself a partner.
“Things do seem kind of new,” I said.
“Chicks like me who are always getting sick—we just keep commuting back and forth between this and the normal state, right? Eventually you stop being able to tell which one is the real world, and your life rockets by really fast. Everything moves at this totally awesome speed.”
“Like always being drunk or something.”
“Bingo, babe. Exactly.”
Tsugumi gave me a grin, then stood up and left the room. Her departure was just as sudden as her arrival. For a long time the curve of her back lingered in my mind’s eye like some sort of afterimage, incredibly clear.
Tsugumi and I were both completely recovered by the night of the festival. We made plans to go out as a party of four—Tsugumi, Kyōichi, Yōko, and me. The prospect of showing her guy what summer festivals in this town were all about had Tsugumi just about as wired as she could be.
For the first time in a year, Tsugumi, Yōko, and I helped each other put on the light cotton kimonos that we always wore to this festival. Each of us could wrap an obi around the waist of the other two, and we all knew how to tie the special knot at the back, but it was impossible for us to get the lengthy pieces of cloth wound around our own waists. Our kimonos were all a dim navy blue, a shade that set off the large white floral pattern, making the flowers glow. We unfolded the blue, spread it out across the spacious tatami-matted floor in one of the rooms of the inn, then laid out the various flashy, stunningly cheap-looking obi, which were all either pink or red. Tsugumi slipped into her kimono, and I picked up a red obi, wrapped it around her waist, and tied it. At times like this, I realize how thin she really is. It feels as if no matter how hard I pull, there will always be a little crevice of darkness beyond . . . I get the feeling that in a moment I’ll find myself standing here with nothing left in my hand but the thin, stiff obi . . . A shiver runs along my spine.
We were down in the lobby in our kimonos, watching TV, when Kyōichi came to get us. He had on the same sort of clothes he always wore, but when Tsugumi accused him of being “one hell of a wet blanket” he stuck out one of his feet, pointing out that the footwear was special. He had on a pair of tall wooden clogs of the sort people in Japan used to wear. His large bare feet were like an emblem of summer. And unlike all the other times when I’ve seen her dressed in a kimono, Tsugumi refrained from bragging about how magnificent she looked. Instead, she stretched out her pale arms and took Kyōichi’s hand in hers, yanking it up and down.
“Come on, hurry up, let’s go already!” she urged, sounding just like a child. “We want to see all the stalls before the fireworks start!”
Something about the way she said this made it sound extremely adorable.
Then, “Oh my gosh! What happened to you, Kyōichi?”
Until Yōko said this, neither Tsugumi nor I had noticed. He was standing in a slightly shadowy part of the entry way, and it was already starting to fade, but now that we were paying attention we could see that he had a deep blue bruise under one of his eyes.
“Don’t tell me—I bet my old man figured out we’re dating and socked you one, didn’t he? Oh man, that really sucks!” said Tsugumi.
“Yeah, you’re telling me.” Kyōichi smiled ruefully.
“Oh my God, are you serious?” I cried.
“Hell no, I don’t have any idea what happened! Besides, use your brain. You think the old man loves me that much?” Tsugumi was snickering, but her words had a painfully lonely ring. In the end this comment distracted us, and we left the house without having managed to find out what had happened.
Gazing up at the Milky Way where it shone mistily in the sky, we strolled to the end of the street and passed the beach. The music for the o-bon dance that streamed from the speakers up at the shrine was buoyed along on the wind, so that you could hear it all over town. The sea looked much blacker and choppier than usual—perhaps because of the way the beach glowed in the light of the lanterns that lined it. People walked more slowly than usual, unwilling to see the summer go. Every little alleyway was crowded with people; it seemed like everyone in town must be out in the streets.
We ran into lots of old friends.
Friends from elementary school, junior high, high school. Everyone had matured in their own way, and even as we stood face to face with them they seemed like people from dreams, sudden glimpses through the fences of our tangled memories. We smiled and waved, exchanged a few words, and then walked on in our separate directions. The singing of flutes, the waving fans, the passing breath of a salty breeze—all this projected itself slowly onto the night, flowing on and on like paper lanterns adrift on a river.
It’s impossible to remember the air of a festival night—you have to wait until a festival actually rolls around to get it back. Maybe you’re only missing one tiny little detail, but that’s all it takes to keep you from reliving the perfect image, calling up the sense of being there. Will I return to this town again next year? Or will I be missing all this somewhere under that Tokyo sky, caught in my own dream of an imperfect festival? For a while as we looked up and down the long lines of illuminated stalls I let myself dwell on these thoughts.
The incident occurred while we were standing in the long line of people waiting to pray at the main shrine. Not that it was really much of an incident.
Tsugumi decided it was too much of a pain to wait in line and tried to lead us past without even stopping, and Yōko and I had to fight hard to persuade her that this was the one part of the festival you simply couldn’t skip.
Seeing that she had no choice, she lined up beside us.
Even then she wouldn’t stop muttering, and kept firing all kinds of saucy comments at us. “Come on kids, you really believe in these ‘god’ things? No joke? At your age?” she scoffed. “You go up there and chuck the coin in the box and clap three times and you think something good is gonna happen? You really believe that, huh?”
At times like this Kyōichi always kept quiet, his mouth bent in a tiny smile. The particular way he had of keeping quiet struck you as being totally natural, though, and somehow his silence radiated a really awesome sense of presence. Seeing him like this you got a splendid sense of just how selfish and egocentric Tsugumi could act in front of him without it bothering him in the least. Tsugumi has always been good at getting people like him on her side. Maybe because she really needs them.
Whatever else you might say about the shrine, it was certainly just about as crowded as it could be, and the line of people waiting to pray stretched all the way back to the steps leading up to the front gateway. The clunking of the hanging rattle that people shook before praying and the clink of coins falling into the wooden collection box continued without pause while the line slowly pushed forward. Step by step we advanced toward the shrine, chatting about this and that as we waited. Occasionally people cut between us, breaking through the line to get to the other side. Everyone was squashed up against everyone else, so this was only natural. But then suddenly this guy forced himself into the space between Kyōichi and Tsugumi, and stomped through, shoving them both roughly aside. The guy was scrawny and young, a perfect example of the type people refer to as “little punks” and “hoodlums,” and he was followed by two or three of his companions, guys more or less like him.
> Of course there’s no denying that their manner of getting through the line could have been a little more pleasant, and it’s true that for a moment anger flared across all our faces. But Kyōichi wasn’t content to let the matter drop so easily. With no warning whatsoever he reached down and took off one of the heavy wooden sandals he was wearing and whammed it down on the back of the first guy’s head, so forcefully that I actually heard a crack.
I was aghast.
The guy bellowed out a curse, clutched his head, and glared back at Kyōichi. Then his eyes widened in surprise, and a moment later he had scampered off into the darkness. His partners followed, pushing people aside as they dashed headlong out the main entrance and down the narrow stairway.
Everything had gone silent as goggling eyes took stock of the scene, but the silence only lasted until the young men fled, a matter of a few seconds. Soon everyone turned toward the front of the line again, and the hubbub returned.
Only the three of us remained as we were, stuck in our shock.
Finally Tsugumi broke the silence.
“Now kid, I realize that little turd was trying to push us apart, but still . . . Seriously, even I wouldn’t go that far!”
Yōko and I burst out laughing.
“You don’t understand,” said Kyōichi. The light shining over his profile revealed a very dark expression, but his voice was more serious than anything. Still, he cheered up pretty quickly. “Actually, those assholes are responsible for this,” he said, pointing to the bruise under his eye. “It all happened in the dark, and it was so sudden that I could hardly tell who had hit me, but I’m sure it was him. Serves him right.”
“But what made them come after you?” I asked.
“My dad’s not very popular around here. He forced folks to sell their land so that he would have a plot large enough for the hotel and stuff, you know? I mean, think about it. Some outsider comes and builds this giant hotel and sucks away all your customers . . . no one’s gonna like that. My guess is that things will be pretty rough for a while. My parents and I understand that, and we’re prepared for it. But I figure that after we’ve been here for a while, like maybe ten years or so, people will grow used to having us around.”
“But none of that has anything to do with you, right?” I asked.
But even as I spoke, I found myself thinking that maybe there was something about Kyōichi that really stirred people’s jealousy. He’d showed up in town with his dog, he’d been spending all this time living in an inn, all on his own, and all he did all day was go around observing the town, this town that would be his home from now on, and it had taken hardly any time at all for him to enchant the number one beauty in town—or, at any rate, the young woman who had that reputation. Eventually, that giant hotel that was being built would belong to him. There’s a certain type of person in this world that just despises guys like Kyōichi. I figured that must be the problem.
“Well, I don’t think there’s any need to worry,” said Yōko. “And I’m not just saying that because we’re all going to be leaving here before long anyway, except for you—that’s not what I mean. After all, our mother has really grown to like you a lot, Kyōichi. And then a couple days ago I overheard her talking with our father, and she was saying that if someone like you would be willing to stick it out here then the whole region was sure to keep getting nicer. And everyone where you’re staying, over at the Nakahama Inn—I’m sure that by now they must have gotten wind of who you are. But they still make a big fuss over you, right? And they’re just crazy about Gongorō! And of course you’re always helping out around the inn, right? If you’ve managed to make this many friends in a single summer, I feel sure you’ll be just fine. Once you actually start living here you’ll be a local in no time.”
Yōko always took so long to get to the point when she tried to explain stuff like this, and she was so utterly, almost dreadfully earnest that somehow she ended up making you want to break down crying. Kyōichi simply replied that she was probably right, and I nodded without saying anything. Tsugumi had stood facing the front of the line the entire time Yōko spoke, and she hadn’t said a word, but something in her little back and in the red obi fastened around her waist told me that she was listening.
Finally our turn came. We each shook the rattle and prayed.
Tsugumi announced that since there was still time before the fireworks she wanted to go play with Gongorō, and the four of us headed down to the inn where Kyōichi was staying. The inn was close to the beach, so we’d be able to dash over as soon as the show started.
Gongorō was chained up in the garden. The moment he spotted Kyōichi he sprang up and started bouncing around, overjoyed. Tsugumi ran right over and started rollicking with him, not at all concerned that the bottom of her kimono was dragging all over the ground.
“Hey there!” Tsugumi cried. “Hey Gongorō!”
Yōko watched her. “So Tsugumi likes dogs after all,” she sighed.
“Yeah, who would have known!” I said with a laugh.
Tsugumi turned around, looking a little annoyed.
“Sure,” she snapped. “After all, a dog doesn’t betray you.”
“Yeah . . . I can sympathize with that,” said Kyōichi. “Every so often when I’m sitting here scratching Gongorō’s stomach and stuff I start thinking about that kind of thing. He’s still a puppy, right, which means that he’ll probably keep on eating food set out by these hands of mine until he dies—he’ll probably be with me that whole time. Actually I think that’s pretty amazing. He’s totally there, you know, nothing can be taken away—maybe I could put it that way. You certainly can’t have that with people.”
“You’re talking about not being betrayed?” I asked.
“I don’t know . . . it’s more that people can’t help coming into contact with new things all the time, one thing after the next, and so bit by bit they just keep changing on you, you know? They forget all kinds of stuff, whittle stuff away, and there’s nothing you can do about that—they’re bound to do it. I guess it’s because there are so many things for us to do, but still . . .”
“I think I see what you mean,” I said.
“Yep, that’s just what I meant,” said Tsugumi as she continued to frolic with Gongorō. The garden of this inn had a line of flowerpots around it, lots and lots of them, and the plants in them all appeared to be extremely well cared for. There were a number of lights on in the windows, and over by the entrance we could hear the voices of people heading out to the festival or coming back, and the clip-clopping of wooden sandals on the pavement.
“The stars are pretty tonight, aren’t they?”
Yōko was gazing up at the sky. With the soft glow of the Milky Way at its center, the whole wide expanse of night sky was flecked with fragments of starlight that seemed to bleed outward until they were all stuck together.
“Kyōichi, is that you out in the garden?”
I turned to look at the window from which the voice had come. It was the kitchen. A lady, evidently a member of the inn’s staff, was standing there with her head outside.
“Yup, it’s me!” Kyōichi replied, sounding just like a little boy.
“You have friends with you, right? I heard voices,” said the lady.
“Yes, three of my friends are here.”
“Well then, why don’t you all snack on this.” As she spoke, the lady held out a large glass plate covered with thin slices of watermelon.
“Hey, thanks a lot. I appreciate it.” Kyōichi took the plate.
“It’s so dark out there, why don’t you all go eat in the dining room?”
“Oh no, we’re fine out here. But thanks anyway.” Kyōichi smiled.
We all called out our thanks and bowed lightly in the lady’s direction.
She smiled back at us. “No need to thank me, just eat. Kyōichi is always helping us with all kinds of chores at the inn, after all. Can’t hold it against him even if he does come from the hotel! He’s a popular guy around he
re, you know. Hey Kyōichi, when that hotel of yours goes up you’d better be sure to send plenty of customers our way, you hear? Turn down one out of every three reservations and tell the folks that although, unfortunately, the hotel has no vacancies right now, you enthusiastically recommend the Nakahama Inn. Is that clear? You got that, Kyōichi?” said the lady.
“Ab-so-lute-ly!” said Kyōichi. “Roger!”
The lady laughed and closed the window.
Almost immediately Tsugumi reached out and took a slice of watermelon. “Kyōichi, my little lovely,” she said, “you really seem to have hit it off with the old hags. You must be one of these old-lady-killers you hear about, huh?”
“I bet you could find a more pleasant way to say that if you tried,” said Yōko. But Tsugumi’s expression remained utterly unconcerned, and she kept eating her watermelon. Beads of sweat were trickling down her face.
“Do you really help them that much?” I asked. I’d never heard of a guest helping out with the work at an inn.
“Yeah, I don’t really have much else to do with my time, so somehow I just end up working. They seem to be understaffed, and it gets incredibly busy every morning, and then again at night. Of course in return for my labor they’re letting me keep Gongorō with me, and they give me food.” Kyōichi grinned.
I got the feeling that Aunt Masako was right. Things would be fine as long as Kyōichi was here, even after the rest of us had gone.
The watermelon was a little watery, but it was sweet and not overly strong. We gobbled down slice after slice, squatting there in the dark. The water from the hose we used to wash our hands was very cold—it formed a tiny river on the dark soil and trickled away. At first Gongorō had been watching us eat, an envious expression on his face, but after a while he rolled his small body over in a patch of grass and lay there. He shut his eyes.
We see all kinds of different things as we grow up. And with each instant that passes we change into something new. We keep moving forward, and as we move we keep being confronted by this fact, over and over again, in many different ways. But if there were one thing that I wanted to hold on to even with this knowledge, to retain just as it was, it would be this evening. I didn’t need anything else, I didn’t need anything more—that’s how happy we were then, how full the air surrounding us was with a small and quiet joy.
Goodbye Tsugumi Page 11
