I rang Midori’s apartment from the station when I got off the train in Kichijoji, but there was no answer. With nothing better to do, I ambled around the neighborhood looking for some part-time work I could take after classes started. I would be free all day Saturday and Sunday and could work after five o’clock on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, but finding a job that fit my particular schedule was no easy matter. I gave up and went home. When I went out to buy groceries for dinner, I tried Midori’s place again. Her sister told me that Midori hadn’t come home yet and that she had no idea when she’d be back. I thanked her and hung up.
After eating, I tried to write to Midori, but I gave up after several false starts and wrote to Naoko instead.
Spring was here, I said, and the new school year was beginning. I told her I missed her, that I had been hoping to be able to meet her and talk. “In any case,” I said, “I’ve decided to make myself strong. As far as I can tell, that’s all I can do.
“There’s one other thing. Maybe it just has to do with me, and you may not care about this one way or the other, but I’m not sleeping with anybody anymore. That’s because I don’t want to forget the last time you touched me. It meant a lot more to me than you might think. I think about it all the time.”
I PUT THE LETTER in an envelope, stuck on a stamp, and sat at my desk a long while staring at it. It was a much shorter letter than usual, but I had the feeling that Naoko might understand me better that way. I poured myself an inch and a half of whiskey, drank it down in two swallows, and went to sleep.
THE NEXT DAY I found a job near Kichijoji Station that I could do on Saturdays and Sundays: waiting on tables at a smallish Italian restaurant. The conditions were nothing much, but transportation and lunches were included. And whenever somebody on the late shift took the day off on a Monday, Wednesday, or Thursday (which happened often) I could take their place. This was perfect for me. The manager said they would raise my pay once I had stayed with them for three months, and they wanted me to start that Saturday. He was a far more decent guy than the clown who ran the record store in Shinjuku.
I TRIED PHONING Midori’s apartment again, and again her sister answered. Midori hadn’t come back since yesterday, she said, sounding tired, and now she herself was beginning to worry: did I have any idea where she might have gone? All I knew was that Midori had her pajamas and a toothbrush in her bag.
I SAW MIDORI in class on Wednesday. She was wearing a deep green sweater and the dark sunglasses she had often worn that summer. She was seated in the last row, talking with a slightly built girl with glasses I had seen once before. I approached her and said I’d like to talk to her after class. The girl with glasses looked at me first, and then Midori looked at me. Her hairstyle was, in fact, somewhat more womanly than it had been before: more grown-up.
“I have to see somebody,” Midori said, cocking her head slightly.
“I won’t take much of your time,” I said. “Five minutes.”
Midori removed her sunglasses and narrowed her eyes. She might just as well have been looking at a crumbling, abandoned house some hundred yards in the distance.
“I don’t want to talk to you. Sorry,” she said.
The girl with glasses looked at me with eyes that said, She says she doesn’t want to talk to you. Sorry.
I sat in the seat on the right end of the front row for the lecture (an overview of the works of Tennessee Williams and their place in American literature), and when it was over, I did a long count to three and turned around. Midori was gone.
April was too lonely a month to spend all alone. In April, everyone around me looked happy. People would throw their coats off and enjoy each other’s company in the sunshine—talking, playing catch, holding hands. But I was always by myself. Naoko, Midori, Nagasawa: all of them had gone away from where I stood. Now I had no one to say “Good morning” to or “Have a nice day.” I even missed Storm Trooper. I spent the whole month with this hopeless sense of isolation. I tried a few times to speak to Midori, but the answer I got from her was always the same: “I don’t want to talk to you now,” and I knew from her tone of voice that she meant it. She was always with the girl with glasses, or else I saw her with a tall, short-haired guy. He had these incredibly long legs and always wore white basketball shoes.
April ended and May came along, but May was even worse than April. In the deepening spring of May, I had no choice but to recognize the trembling of my heart. It usually happened as the sun was going down. In the pale evening gloom, when the soft fragrance of magnolias hung in the air, my heart would swell without warning, and tremble, and lurch with a stab of pain. I would try clamping my eyes shut and gritting my teeth, and wait for it to pass. And it would pass—but slowly, taking its own time, and leaving a dull ache behind.
At those times I would write to Naoko. In my letters to her, I would describe only things that were touching or pleasant or beautiful: the fragrance of grasses, the caress of a spring breeze, the light of the moon, a movie I’d seen, a song I liked, a book that had moved me. I myself would be comforted by letters like this when I would reread what I had written. And I would feel that the world I lived in was a wonderful one. I wrote any number of letters like this, but from Naoko or Reiko I heard nothing.
At the restaurant where I worked I got to know another student my age named Itoh. It took quite a while before this gentle, quiet student from the oil painting department of an arts college would engage me in conversation, but eventually we started going to a nearby bar after work and talking about all kinds of things. He also liked to read and listen to music, and so we’d usually talk about books and records we liked. He was a slim, good-looking guy with much shorter hair and far cleaner clothes than the typical arts student. He never had a lot to say, but he had his definite tastes and opinions. He liked French novels, especially those of Georges Bataille and Boris Vian. For music, he preferred Mozart and Ravel. And, like me, he was looking for a friend with whom he could talk about such things.
Itoh once invited me to his apartment. It was not quite as hard to get to as mine: a strange, one-floored apartment house behind Inokashira Park. His room was stuffed with painting supplies and canvas. I asked to see his work, but he said he was too embarrassed to show me anything. We drank some Chivas Regal that he had quietly removed from his father’s place, broiled some smelts on his charcoal stove, and listened to Robert Casadesus playing a Mozart piano concerto.
Itoh was from Nagasaki. He had a girlfriend he would sleep with whenever he went home, he said, but things weren’t going too well with her lately.
“You know what girls are like,” he said. “They turn twenty or twenty-one and all of a sudden they start having these concrete ideas. They get super realistic. And when that happens, everything that seemed so sweet and lovable about them begins to look ordinary and depressing. Now when I see her, usually after we do it, she starts asking me, ‘What are you going to do after you graduate?’”
“Well, what are you going to do after you graduate?” I asked him.
Munching on a mouthful of smelt, he shook his head. “What can I do? I’m in oil painting! Start worrying about stuff like that, and nobody’s going to major in oil painting! You don’t do it to feed yourself. So she’s like, why don’t I come back to Nagasaki and become an art teacher? She’s planning to be an English teacher.”
“You’re not so crazy about her anymore, are you?”
“That about sums it up,” Itoh admitted. “And who the hell wants to be an art teacher? I’m not gonna spend my whole fuckin’ life teaching middle-school monkeys how to draw!”
“That’s beside the point,” I said. “Don’t you think you ought to break up with her? For both your sakes.”
“Sure I do. But I don’t know how to say it to her. She’s planning to spend her life with me. How the hell can I say, ‘Hey, we ought to split up. I don’t like you anymore’?”
We drank our Chivas straight, without ice, and when we ran out of smelts we cut up some cucumbers and celery and dipped them in miso. When my teeth crunched down on my cucumber slices, I thought of Midori’s father, which reminded me how flat and tasteless my life had become without Midori and put me into a foul mood. Without my being aware of it, she had become a huge presence inside me.
“Got a girlfriend?” Itoh asked me.
“I do,” I said, then, after a pause, added, “but I can’t be with her right now.”
“But you understand each other’s feelings, right?”
“I like to think so. Otherwise, what’s the point?” I said with a chuckle.
Itoh talked in hushed tones about the greatness of Mozart. He knew Mozart inside out, the way a country boy knows his mountain trails. His father loved the music and had had him listening to it ever since he was tiny. I didn’t know so much about classical music, but listening to this Mozart concerto with Itoh’s smart and heartfelt commentary (“There—that part,” “How about that?”), I felt myself calming down for the first time in ages. We stared at the crescent moon hanging over Inokashira Park and drank our Chivas Regal to the last drop. Fantastic whiskey.
Itoh said I could spend the night there, but I told him I had something to do, thanked him for the whiskey, and left his apartment before nine. On the way back to my place I called Midori from a public phone. She actually answered, much to my surprise.
“Sorry,” she said, “but I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
“I know, I know. But I don’t want our relationship to end like this. You’re one of the very few friends I have, and it hurts not being able to see you. When am I going to be able to talk to you? I want you to tell me that much, at least.”
“When I feel like talking to you,” she said.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Fine,” she said, and hung up.
A LETTER CAME from Reiko in the middle of May.
Thanks for writing so often. Naoko enjoys your letters. And so do I. You don’t mind if I read them, do you?
Sorry I haven’t been able to answer for such a long time. To tell you the truth, I’ve been feeling kind of exhausted, and there hasn’t been much good news to report. Naoko’s not doing well. Her mother came from Kobe the other day. The four of us—she and Naoko and the doctor and I—had a good long talk and we reached the conclusion that Naoko should move to a real hospital for a while for some intensive treatment and then maybe come back here depending on the results. Naoko says she’d like to stay here if possible and make herself well, and I know I am going to miss her and worry about her, but the fact is that it’s getting harder and harder to keep her under control here. She’s fine most of the time, but sometimes her emotions become tremendously unstable, and when that happens we can’t take our eyes off her. There’s no telling what she would do. When she has those intense episodes of hearing voices, she shuts down completely and burrows inside herself.
Which is why I myself agree that the best thing for Naoko would be for her to receive therapy at a proper institution for a while. I hate to say it, but it’s all we can do. As I told you once before, patience is the most important thing. We have to go on unraveling the jumbled threads one at a time, without losing hope. No matter how hopeless her condition may appear to be, we are bound to find that one loose thread sooner or later. If you’re in pitch blackness, all you can do is sit tight until your eyes get used to the dark.
Naoko should have moved to that other hospital by the time you receive this. I’m sorry I waited to tell you until the decision had been made, but it happened very quickly. The new hospital is a really good one, with good doctors. I’ll write the address below: please write to Naoko there. They will be keeping me informed of her progress, too, so I will let you know what I hear. I hope it will be good news. I know this is going to be hard for you, but keep your hopes up. And even though Naoko is not here anymore, please write to me once in a while.
Good-bye.
I wrote a huge number of letters that spring: one a week to Naoko, several to Reiko, and several more to Midori. I wrote letters in the classroom, I wrote letters at my desk at home with Seagull in my lap, I wrote letters at empty tables during my breaks at the Italian restaurant. It was as if I were writing letters to hold together the pieces of my crumbling life.
To Midori I wrote, “April and May were painful, lonely months for me because I couldn’t talk to you. I never knew that spring could be so painful and lonely. Better to have three Februaries than a spring like this. I know it’s too late to be saying this to you, but your new hairstyle looks great on you. Really cute. I’m working in an Italian restaurant now, and the cook taught me a great way to make spaghetti. I’d like to make it for you soon.”
I WENT TO SCHOOL every day, worked in the restaurant two or three times a week, talked with Itoh about books and music, read a few Boris Vian novels he lent me, wrote letters, played with Seagull, made spaghetti, worked in the garden, masturbated thinking of Naoko, and went to lots of movies.
By the time Midori started talking to me, it was almost the middle of June. We hadn’t said a word to each other for two months. After the end of one lecture, she sat down in the seat next to mine, propped her chin in her hand, and sat there, saying nothing. Beyond the window, it was raining—a real rainy-season rain, pouring straight down without any wind, soaking every single thing beneath. Long after the other students had filed out of the classroom, Midori went on sitting next to me without a word. Then she took a Marlboro from the pocket of her jeans jacket, put it between her lips, and handed me her matches. I struck a match and lit her cigarette. Midori pursed her lips and blew a gentle cloud of tobacco in my face.
“Like my hairstyle?” she asked.
“It’s great.”
“How great?”
“Great enough to knock down all the trees in all the forests of the world.”
“You really think so?”
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