Strange Weather in Tokyo

by Hiromi Kawakami

“Tsukiko, how much longer do you think I’ll live?” Sensei asked abruptly. I met Sensei’s gaze. His eyes were placid. “A very, very long time,” I cried out reflexively. The young couple sitting on the next bench turned around in surprise. Several pigeons took flight. “You know that’s not the case.” “But, still, a long time.” Sensei took my left hand in his right hand, his dry palm enveloping mine. “And would you not be satisfied, if it weren’t a long time?”

Sensei, I whispered. Tsukiko, Sensei whispered back. “Sensei, even if you were to die very soon, it would be all right for me. I could handle it,” I said, pressing my face against his chest.

“So, then, well.” “Yes?” “Would you consider a relationship with me, based on a premise of love?” Excuse me? I stammered in response. What do you mean by that, Sensei? I’ve been in love with you, for a while now,

A crow on a nearby branch cawed loudly. Surprised, I flew up off the bench. The crow gave another caw. Sensei smiled. He wrapped his palm around mine again, still smiling.

fate

Sensei, his benevolent nature seemed to originate from his sense of fair-mindedness. It wasn’t about being kind to me; rather, it was born from a teacherly attitude of being willing to listen to my opinion without prejudice. I found this considerably more wonderful than just being nice to me.

Uh, why don’t I help you? I wanted to say. We could give it a try soon. But, feeling the pressure of Sensei’s solemnity, I didn’t feel like I could say this to him. Nor could I tell him I didn’t give a damn about that. Or that I would rather he just go on kissing and holding me like always.

“Sensei?” I ventured. “What is it, Tsukiko?” “I love you, Sensei.” “I love you too, Tsukiko.” We spoke these words to each other sincerely. We were always sincere with each other. Even when we were joking around, we were sincere. Come to think of it, so were the tuna. And the skipjack. All living things were sincere, on the whole.

“There is something wistful about the lights at night,” Sensei said as he blew his nose on a big white handkerchief.

Sensei’s briefcase lies beside my dressing table.

In loneliness I have drifted this long way, alone. My torn and shabby robe could not keep out the cold. And tonight the sky was so clear it made my heart ache all the more. Sensei taught me this poem by Seihaku Irako at some point. I try reading it and other poems out loud when I’m home alone. I’ve been studying a bit since

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.