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.

The idea of spending time at a widower’s home was slightly off-putting, but once I’ve started drinking, not much can stop me, so I went along.

There must have been a little saké left in my cup, because the tea had an odd taste. All of a sudden I felt the effects of the alcohol, and I became thoroughly pleased by what I saw around me.

Light filters white across the river through the willows. From Ono on the other bank.

From Ono on the other bank a flute makes its faint way through the mist, touching the traveler’s heart.

The owner of the cat stall listened in silence to their conversation. Finally, the child pointed at a small, striped tabby. The owner wrapped the tabby in a soft cloth and the mother took it and gently placed it in her shopping basket. The faint sound of the tabby’s mewling could be heard from inside the basket.

“A person can learn all manner of things, no matter where he finds himself, provided his spirit is determined.”

Once my eyes had adjusted to the faint light, I realized that the undergrowth was alive with all manner of things. Tiny orange mushrooms. Moss. Something that looked like coarse white veins on the underside of a leaf. What must be some kind of fungus. Dead beetles. Various kinds of ants. Centipedes. Moths on the backs of leaves.

And I never really acknowledged that any of them were alive in any way. I never gave any thought to the fact that they were leading the same kind of complicated life as I was.

so I didn’t bother to argue. Even if I had, I doubt it would have bothered her, perhaps it would just have contributed to the subtle accumulation of anger—the way a succession of smaller waves accumulate into one big wave—that rippled throughout everyday life in unexpected places. That’s just the way married life is, I suppose.

I had long ago gotten used to that particular kind of uneasiness. It was just dissatisfying in some way. It felt as if I had ordered a bunch of clothes that I had every reason to think would fit perfectly, but when I went to try them on, some were too short, while with others the hem dragged on the floor. Surprised, I would take the clothes off and hold them up against my body, only to find that they were all, in fact, the right length. Or something like that.

Neither of us said a word. 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 was never much good at cooking anyway, but even if I had been, I had no particular interest in packing lunches for him or going to his place to cook for him or inviting him over for home-cooked meals. I was always afraid that doing so would put me in a compromising position—trapped in the kitchen, so to speak.

I’ll try to remember, I replied, as if I were a student again. It was somewhat of a careless phrase, insecure and childish.

Any other time, Sensei would stubbornly insist on salted skewers when he ate yakitori. But apparently he was capable of flexibility under certain circumstances, I thought, growing reproachful as I sipped saké by myself in a corner.

I wasn’t at all annoyed to be read so easily, though—rather, I felt like a child hiding something whose parent knows right away what is going on.

“The first time I asked a girl on a date, well, I actually wrote out something like a flow chart of how the conversation might go.”

After I left home, I lived in another part of the city but, like a salmon that returns to the stream of its birth, at some point I ended up back here, in the neighborhood where I grew up.

I didn’t want to go on a trip with Kojima. The thought came clearly to mind. With the distinct feeling of the tatami weave on my cheek, I thought about the vague sense of discomfort I experienced when I was with Kojima—it was faint yet inconsolable.

I hoped that my mouth was still that of a young woman, but if not, I was resigned to that too. I felt very strongly about it at that moment.

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

Are those boats out at sea, there, what look like needles lined up along the horizon? Sensei and I fixed our gaze on them for a moment. My eyes got dry as I stared out at them. I quickly lost interest, but Sensei’s gaze was interminably steady.

“It grows because you plant it.” This was a phrase often repeated by my great-aunt when she was alive.

“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.”

“Would you consider a relationship with me, based on a premise of love?”

With 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.

That was quite a discovery for me, the fact that arbitrary kindness makes me uncomfortable, but that being treated fairly feels good.

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.

We spoke these words to each other sincerely. We were always sincere with each other. Even when we were joking around, we were sincere.

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.