Strange Weather in Tokyo

by Hiromi Kawakami

Our food preferences weren’t the only things we shared; we had a similar rhythm, or temperament. Despite the more than thirty-year difference in our ages, I felt much more familiar with him than with friends my own age.

It seems a shame to get rid of them the moment they die, after these batteries have illuminated my lights, signaled my sounds, and run my motors.

When I tried to think whom I spent time with before I became friendly with Sensei, no one came to mind. I had been alone. I rode the bus alone, I walked around the city alone, I did my shopping alone, and I drank alone.

Didn’t we have anything to talk about? There must have been something. But as I tried to think of what to say, my mind went blank. You’d think we’d be close, but it was precisely because we were close that we couldn’t reach each other. Forcing myself to make conversation felt like standing on a cliff, peering over the edge, about to tumble down headfirst.

I’m a bit of a gourmand, so when I’m not able to take the time to indulge my tastes as I please, I begin to lose a certain vitality, as was reflected in my pallid complexion.

Often when I was alone, such were the contents of my head. Random thoughts about the Wilkinson brand or a European trip from the distant past would bubble up in my mind, like effervescent carbonation, and continue their wistful proliferation.

I’m able to steel myself against that inevitable sense of regret brought on by the evening twilight. This time of year, rather, with its prolonged nightfall—it’s not dark yet, soon but not quite dark yet—seemed to play tricks on me. The moment after I realized it was dark, I would feel a surge of loneliness. That’s why I left the apartment. Out on the street, I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t the only one here, that I wasn’t the only one feeling lonely.

cherry blossom party guests seemed to steadily spread out, like a plant’s leaves unfurling as its bud blooms.

The moon was suspended in the sky. Looking up, Kojima said, “That’s your moon,” referring to the first character in my name, tsuki, the Japanese word for moon.

“This strange weather must be a result of the strange thing you said, Tsukiko,” Sensei murmured, leaning forward from the veranda.

Sensei, it’s dark, I murmured. Sensei, come back, it’s already dark. I don’t care if you’re still dwelling on your wife or whatever, just hurry back and let’s have a drink together. My earlier anger was now completely forgotten. We don’t have to be teatime companions, we can just be drinking buddies. I’d like nothing more than that.

But then again, wasn’t a sensation just that kind of indistinct notion that slips away, no matter how you try to contain it?

“Moths at evening, in loneliness, circle the lantern.”

“That’s how love is,” she used to say. “If the love is true, then treat it the same way you would a plant—fertilize it, protect it from the elements—you must do absolutely everything you can. But if it isn’t true, then it’s best to just let it wither on the vine.”

But had I really enjoyed living life on my own until now? Joyful. Painful. Pleasant. Sweet. Bitter. Sour. Ticklish. Itchy. Cold. Hot. Lukewarm. Just what kind of life had I lived? I wondered.

Those nights, I open Sensei’s briefcase and peer inside. The blank empty space unfolds, containing nothing within. It holds nothing more than an expanse of desolate absence.