Where the Wild Ladies Are

by Aoko Matsuda

  Truth be told, this whole company was something of a mystery to Shigeru. He’d applied for the job after seeing it advertised in a free local employment paper he’d picked up at the convenience store. Some of the words cramped in the tiny square notice had been so blurred that he could barely make them out, so it was hard to tell what kind of company it was, or the exact nature of the work. The only thing he could see for certain was that the hourly rate was on the higher side. Shigeru had assumed his vision must be deteriorating. Not only that, but as he headed to the interview, he was seized by panic upon realizing he couldn’t for the life of him recall the company’s name.

  There were three people interviewing him that day. On the left sat Mr. Tei, dressed in a suit rather than his usual work gear. The person in the middle, the eldest on the panel, told Shigeru that the company manufactured a wide variety of products and offered a range of different services, explaining that he might need to move frequently between departments. Would he mind that? “No, not at all,” Shigeru had answered. In his heart, of course, he was saying, Whatever, I really couldn’t care less!

  Mr. Tei had called to inform him he’d gotten the job.

  As soon as Shigeru started work it became clear to him that the company was full of middle-aged women. Young men like Shigeru were few and far between. In the first few days, he briefly worried that the women might all start cooing over him as if he were some kind of celebrity, vying for his attention and getting into fights over him, but he soon realized he had no need to fear on that count. The women didn’t treat him as a foreign presence—indeed, they showed no particular interest in him whatsoever, though they were kind to him in their own way.

  Shigeru discovered that being surrounded by women indifferent to his presence made everything pleasantly uncomplicated. He struggled considerably more around Mr. Tei, who was closest to him in age, and toward whom Shigeru couldn’t help but feel a sense of male solidarity. Not that Mr. Tei paid Shigeru any particular attention. When addressing Shigeru, his face remained as expressionless as it did with everyone else. The women in the company seemed to respect Mr. Tei, and would frequently go up and speak to him, apparently unfazed by his lack of social graces. There was no doubting his popularity.

  The building turned out to be unexpectedly cavernous, in a way that Shigeru never would have predicted on first seeing its small, unassuming entrance. The company really did make a miscellany of products, and the manufacturing rooms numbered in the dozens, although the precise number fluctuated on a daily basis, and sometimes Shigeru got the feeling that a staircase or a room he’d never seen before had materialized before his eyes. At those times, though, he’d tell himself that he was still new to the building, and just hadn’t got a proper grasp of its architecture yet. In Shigeru’s current state, none of that stuff really affected him much, anyway. When he went outside, the cherry trees lining the main road were in full bloom, obscuring the contours of the world even further. And for Shigeru’s heart, blurry, ambiguous things were the easiest to bear. He had almost no contact with his university friends who’d now embarked on their new lives. Any hint of peppiness or positivity in their words felt like a stab in Shigeru’s chest. He wanted to minimize the damage that the future was going to deliver him.

  Coming and going between home and work, the days passed by uneventfully.

  On one of his days off, Shigeru was tidying his mom’s grave as usual when he heard the singing again, this time much more clearly. No doubt the volume control on that stupid singing grave had broken, Shigeru thought. He strained his ears in irritation. He had an impulse to locate exactly where the sound was coming from and break the idiotic thing. The voice crooned:

  Please, oh please, my dear,

  Please don’t go crying by my graaave.

  I’m not in there, you hear,

  I’m not sleeping at all.

  Shigeru was flabbergasted. He knew this song! It had been a big hit! He and his mom had watched that tenor perform it as part of the Kōhaku song contest, which was on TV every New Year’s Eve. He could remember his mom munching on a rice cracker as she cooed, “Ooh, I like this one.”

  But surely, in terms of songs to play in a cemetery, this was about the most inappropriate choice ever. The voice began again, now repeating the same phrase over and over.

  I’m not in there, you hear!

  I’m not in there, you hear!

  I’m not in there, you hear!

  It came to Shigeru like a bolt: it was his mom’s voice! And then, as if it had noticed Shigeru’s noticing, the voice fell quiet. However intently he listened, Shigeru could no longer hear anything, not even the sound of the wind. He was standing there all alone, in complete silence.

  Today, as always, an endless procession of incense sticks was gliding past Shigeru’s eyes. The sticks that passed inspection would be boxed, wrapped in paper with the words SOUL SUMMONER brushed on in ink, and taken to the shops. Shigeru didn’t know what effect the incense was supposed to have, but he knew it was one of the company’s most popular products. At lunch the other day, he’d asked the women there about it, but they’d giggled and avoided answering the question. Shoveling down his katsu curry, Shigeru then asked the other question that had been on his mind.

  “Don’t you think this company’s a bit weird sometimes?”

  By now, Shigeru had recovered enough of his mental equilibrium to be able to perceive when something was a bit off. He’d cut back on his graveyard visits, going only every other week. However much he strained his ears, he couldn’t hear the singing anymore these days. He got the sense that maybe, if he greatly increased the number of his visits, he might be able to hear it again—but he also knew that doing so would upset his mom.

  “Well, companies are weird, aren’t they,” one of the ladies said after a pause, as she gobbled up the broad strip of deep-fried tofu sitting on top of her kitsune udon. Her slanted eyes and narrow face had a vulpine quality to them, Shigeru noted. And come to think of it, weren’t the kitsune—the fox spirits capable of transforming themselves into humans—supposed to love deep-fried tofu above all other foods? Wasn’t that, in fact, where the dish had got its name? But he brushed off these thoughts as quickly as they had come to him.

  “No, that’s not what I mean,” he continued hesitantly, but the women tittered and quickly steered the conversation to the new bakery that had opened up by the station, and whose head pastry chef had allegedly trained in France.

  “The savarin is to die for!”

  “Oh, but not a patch on the Mont Blanc!”

  “I’ve never been. Is it really that good?”

  “I’m fairly sure they use only proper butter, not margarine. My gosh, you can taste the difference!”

  As Shigeru listened to the conversation unfolding around him, his jaw hanging open, one of the women, with an unusually large mouth, offered to pour him a cup of green tea from the thermos on the table. As she poured, some of the steaming liquid splashed across her arm, but she didn’t bat an eyelid. From the enormous pouch that she carried around with her, the vulpine woman brought out some individually wrapped custard-filled cakes, and everyone at the table let out squeals of joy.

  What a peculiar place I’ve ended up in, Shigeru thought to himself.

  Loved One

  People are always so surprised when I say I don’t know what osmanthus smells like, but I do have my reasons. I’ve suffered from rhinitis since I was little, and distinguishing smells is not my strong suit.

  Come autumn, fellow pedestrians will occasionally stop still in the middle of the pavement or while turning a corner, and say, their tone suddenly lightening, “Oh, osmanthus! How lovely!” It wears me down to explain each and every time how I used to pay frequent visits to the Ear, Nose, and Throat Hospital when I was younger to try to sort out my rhinitis—to explain that with the pointy machine they stuck up my nose, its weird and repetitive buzzing as it sucked up the mucus, and the strange sensation this provoked, I eventually got fed u
p with the endless hospital visits and stopped going—and since then, have just been making do with over-the-counter drugs. So when people go on and on about the fragrance of osmanthus, I sometimes pretend to understand what they’re talking about and agree with them, although really I don’t have the foggiest idea what sets it apart. At these times, the only thing I’m really marveling at is how popular this osmanthus scent seems to be. On the rare occasion when I confess that I have no idea how it smells, people react as if I’m some hard-hearted brute. Other flowers don’t seem to provoke such a violent reaction, so I assume osmanthus must be special in some way.

  I’ve even met people who’ve said they wished there were a perfume that smelled like osmanthus. Perfume isn’t really my area of expertise either, obviously. I’ve never bought a single bottle of the stuff. Once or twice, I’ve tried out perfumes that people have given me, but it felt stupid to be walking around wearing a fragrance that I myself couldn’t smell, so I stopped.

  When you have no sense of smell, you can rule out a lot of options in life. For example, I have zero interest in aromatherapy or incense, which are all the rage now. Magazines and commercials agree that incorporating such products into your daily routine has a healing effect and facilitates a more relaxed way of living, which makes me think that maybe I’ve missed out entirely on the experience of being healed. What does it feel like, I wonder, to be healed like that?

  But now I can see it’s a good thing that I’ve bypassed all of that fragrance stuff. I realized that just the other day when I stumbled across an article online about how aromatherapy can be harmful to cats. As it happens, I never once used aroma oils or anything like that around the house when Tortie was alive, but if my nose had functioned normally and I hadn’t known about the effect of oils on cats, then I may well have. In general, I’m not that reliant on the internet, but I do think it’s useful sometimes. It was through the internet that I found out that the smell of mint can have an adverse effect on cats, too. But thanks to my nose problems, fragrant plants have never had a place in my life either. What fortune!

  Not that I’m fortunate all the time, of course. Recently, I came down with a cold although it really isn’t the cold season, and while I was tucked up in bed recovering, the supply of incense for the home altar ran out. Reluctant to go out shopping when I was feeling under the weather, I went into my dad’s room for the first time in ages and managed to root out some old incense in one of his drawers. His room is basically as it was when he died. Anyway, it was scented incense that I found, not the kind you’re supposed to burn on altars, but I decided to use it anyhow. I know people are funny about that stuff, but it doesn’t bother me too much. Probably something to do with my reduced olfactory capabilities. Without fragrance to go on, there’s not much to differentiate between incense for altars and the regular kind. They’re all thin little lines that launch other thin little lines into the air, as though they’re trying to grow taller. Incense smoke always looks to me like a soul emerging from a body. A weakling soul. From time to time, I reach out and try to stroke those weakling souls, but they always slip through my fingers, rise higher, and then disappear. Where do souls go after they’ve disappeared, I wonder?

  Anyway, I didn’t really see any problem with my incense repurposing, so I kept on using on the altar the stuff I’d found in my dad’s drawer. I guess you could call me sloppy in that regard. I didn’t know how old it was, but there was about half of it left in the box. I recovered from my cold soon enough and had resumed my habit of stopping at the nearby shopping arcade on a daily basis—but even when I passed by shops selling altar incense, I’d think, well, I still have that other stuff left over—and then I’d just keep walking. I was more interested in the asparagus on sale for eighty-eight yen a bunch.

  One day, as usual, I lit a stick of incense on the altar and was just starting to fold up my washing when I heard someone say in a pained voice, “Ermm, I’m sorry to bother you. I can see you’re busy.”

  The voice had a confident, solid timbre. Assuming that some guy collecting money or soliciting for something or other had made his way up to the house through the front garden, I looked over to the window, but there was no one there.

  “Oh, sorry. I’m over by the altar.”

  I turned my head and, sure enough, right by the altar was a man wearing a suit and black-framed glasses, floating in midair. I was sitting down on the tatami, so I was saved the trouble of falling on my backside in shock. I looked up at the floating man in amazement.

  “Please don’t be alarmed, madam. I’m not a ghost. I’m here on business, from the incense company.”

  My eyes scanned his body before falling on a name tag pinned to his chest. The tag had a single, rather unusual character printed on it.

  “Mr., eh, Migiwa?” I asked hesitantly. It wasn’t a name I’d ever seen before.

  “Ah, no, it’s Tei.” Aha, I thought, a Chinese name. That made sense. I’d thought there was something a little bit idiosyncratic about his intonation.

  “Ah, Mr. Tei. Your Japanese is very good.”

  “Yes, well,” he said blankly, then continued. “In ordinary circumstances I’d offer you my business card, but these circumstances prevent my doing so . . . I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence.”

  I found it utterly bizarre to be addressed with such extreme politeness by a figure who’d literally come floating out of my altar, but I decided not to dwell on it.

  “I am here to speak to you about this product of ours that you’re using. It appears that you still haven’t been experiencing its effect.”

  “Its effect?”

  “Yes. It doesn’t always work perfectly, but for the most part, people can expect to start seeing their loved one as they were during their lifetime within a week or two.”

  “Huh? Is that what this incense is for?” I could barely believe what he was saying.

  “Yes, indeed. I don’t believe that the batch in your possession is defective in any way, so I decided to pay you a visit, to find out if there was some issue preventing it from taking effect. I was wondering if you’d be able to provide me with the name of your preferred loved one, so we can make the necessary adjustments from our side? These days, of course, with online customer reviews having so much sway, we do all we can to see to each and every one of our customers’ needs.”

  Mr. Tei’s expression was one of utmost seriousness. I ran his words through my mind: my preferred loved one. I supposed that, in theory, I should nominate one of my parents, but the truth was that if either of them were to come back now, I wouldn’t really know what to say. This was especially true of my dad, even though—what with my mom dying when I was very small—I’d grown up around him. If anything, it felt like I’d spent too long a time in this house with that mute creature. Even now that he was dead, I didn’t feel entirely alone. I could sense his muted presence around the house. There weren’t many other options either. I’d dated people when I was younger and stuff, but I’d never been married, and there wasn’t anyone for whom I harbored any particularly strong feelings. Then I remembered the other mute creature that had once lived with me.

  “It’s Tortie,” I said.

  “Tortie?” Mr. Tei’s tone sounded a little quizzical, but his face remained unchanged. He was what you might call an expressionless person, but his voice had a soft quality to it, and I found it very calming to listen to.

  “Yes, Tortie. My cat. I got her when I was in my late twenties, and she lived to the grand old age of nineteen. She was here with me after my father died.” Having no sense of smell, I’d never had the experience of being healed by a particular scent, but I feel like for those nineteen years, Tortie had performed the same function for me. Time and time again, I’d been healed by the softness of her fur, the way she would leap up onto my shoulders or my lap, the mewling sound she made that was just so very catlike, the sight of her gazing out of the window, how she looked when she woke up—I was soothed by everything about her, in fact.
Even after she started getting old and her health deteriorated, and I had to take her to the vet all the time and give her all sorts of medicines, she still soothed me. Tortie was a wonderful being. Maybe all cats are.

  Looking slightly taken aback, Mr. Tei began speaking in a slightly more hurried manner.

  “Goodness, yes, you’re right. There really is no justification for us to limit loved ones to human beings. It’s a truly embarrassing oversight on our part, a bug in our system that we’ve been too shortsighted to recognize all this time. Please accept my sincere apologies. I’ll feed that back to our technical team right away. Can I ask you to wait one more week? I promise that you’ll be able to see Tortie after that.”

  “Oh yes, of course.”

  All of this was most unexpected to me, but the prospect of being reunited with Tortie was a very pleasing one. Even if I couldn’t actually touch her, I didn’t mind. Just seeing her would be enough.

  From his aerial position, Mr. Tei finished jotting down his notes, then looked at me. In the fixity of his stare, I could sense the passion with which he approached his work.

  “We also pay a lot of attention to the aroma of our products. In theory, the incense should be emitting your favorite smell, but for some reason it hasn’t been able to pick up that data either. If you have a preferred fragrance, please do let me know.”

  “Oh, I’m not good with smells. I’ve got nose problems.”