Most of the people on the tidal flat were wearing hats. Their heads covered, they squatted as they dug for shellfish. Short shadows sprouted from each of their haunches. They were all facing the same direction as they dug.
“I wonder why they enjoy doing that,” Sensei said while he carefully stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of the glass.
“What do you mean?”
“Digging for shellfish.”
All of a sudden, right there on the rocks, Sensei started doing a headstand. The rocks were at an angle, so that Sensei’s headstand was aslant. He wobbled a little, but he soon steadied.
“Maybe they plan to have them for dinner,” I replied.
“You mean, eat them?” Sensei’s voice drifted up from my feet.
“Or maybe they’ll keep them.”
“Keep the littleneck clams?”
“When I was little, I had a pet snail.”
“A pet snail is not particularly unusual.”
“Isn’t it the same? They’re shellfish.”
“Now, Tsukiko, are snails shellfish?”
“No, I guess not.”
He was still standing on his head. But I didn’t think it was strange at all. It must be this place. Then I remembered something. It was about Sensei’s wife. I had never met her, however, I must have been remembering on behalf of Sensei.
His wife was very good at magic. She started with basic sleight of hand like manipulating a red ball between her fingertips, then moved on to large-scale tricks that involved animals, until her skills were really like that of a professional. But she did not perform her tricks for anyone. She would only practice them alone at home. Every so often, she might demonstrate a newly learned trick to Sensei, but that was rare. He was vaguely aware that she practiced diligently during the day, but he wondered just how much. He knew that she raised rabbits and pigeons in cages, but these animals for magic tricks were smaller and more passive than usual. Even though she kept them inside the house, you could easily forget they were there.
Once, Sensei had an errand that took him to the busy shopping district, far from school, and as he was walking along, a woman who, from straight on, looked just like his wife was headed toward him. However, her carriage and attire differed from his wife’s usual appearance. This woman was wearing a gaudy dress that bared her shoulders. She was arm in arm with a bearded man in a flashy suit who did not seem like the type who made an honest living. Sensei’s wife may have been willful at times, but she did not care to be the center of attention. That being the case, he figured it couldn’t be his wife, it must just be someone who looks like her, and he looked away.
His wife’s doppelgänger and the bearded man were quickly approaching. Sensei had already looked away, yet he found his gaze drawn to the couple once again. The woman was smiling. Her smile was exactly like his wife’s smile. And as she grinned, she pulled a pigeon from her pocket, which she then perched on Sensei’s shoulder. Then she took a small rabbit from her bodice, and placed it on his other shoulder. The rabbit was as still as if it were a figurine. Sensei too stood still, transfixed. Lastly the woman drew a monkey out from beneath her skirt and saddled it on Sensei’s back.
“How ya doing, dear?” the woman said sunnily.
“Is that you, Sumiyo?”
“Shush!” Instead of replying to Sensei’s question, the woman scolded the thrashing pigeon. The pigeon soon settled down. The bearded man and the woman were holding each other’s hand tightly. Sensei gently set the rabbit and the pigeon down on the ground, but he struggled with how to handle the monkey clinging to his back. The man drew the woman closer to him, and then, putting his arm around her shoulder, he whisked her away. They just rushed off, while Sensei was stuck dealing with the monkey.
“YOUR WIFE’S NAME was Sumiyo, wasn’t it?” I asked.
Sensei nodded. “Sumiyo was a peculiar woman, indeed.”
“I see.”
“After she left home, more than fifteen years ago, she moved around from one place to another. Even still, she would regularly send me postcards. Dutifully.”
Sensei was no longer standing on his head; now he was sitting on his heels with his legs folded under him on the rocks. He had called his own wife a strange woman. However, here on the tidal flat, Sensei was the one behaving quite strangely.
“The last postcard, which arrived five years ago, had a postmark from the island you and I went to recently.”
There were more people on the tidal flat. With their backsides facing us, they were digging for shellfish intently. I heard children’s voices. They sounded long and drawn-out, like a tape that was being played back too slowly.
Sensei closed his eyes as he blew cigarette smoke into the empty saké glass. I was able to recall with such detail things about Sensei’s wife—whom I had never met—but when I thought about myself, I could remember nothing. There were only the glimmering boats heading out to sea.
“What kind of place is this?”
“It seems like some sort of middle place.”
“Middle place?”
“Perhaps like a borderline.”
A borderline between what? Did Sensei really come to a place like this all the time? I gulped down another glassful of saké, with no idea how many I’d had, and looked out at the tidal flat. The figures there were hazy and blurred.
“Our dog,” Sensei began, setting down his empty glass on the rocks. The glass suddenly disappeared before my eyes.
We had a dog. It must have been when my son was still small. A Shiba Inu. I love Shibas. My wife liked mutts. She once brought home a bizarre-looking dog from somewhere—it looked like a cross between a dachshund and a bulldog—and that dog lived a very long time. My wife loved that dog. But we had the Shiba before that one. The Shiba ate something he shouldn’t have, then he was ill for a short time, and in the end he died. My son was devastated. I was sad too. But my wife didn’t shed a single tear. Rather, she seemed almost resentful. Resentful at our weepy son and at me.
After we buried the Shiba in our garden, suddenly my wife said to our son, “It’s all right, he’ll be reincarnated.”
She went on, “Chiro will soon be reincarnated.”
“But what will he be reincarnated as?” our son must have asked, his eyes swollen from crying.
“He’ll be reincarnated as me.”
“Huh?!?” our son said, eyes agog. I too was stunned. What could this woman possibly mean? There was no rhyme or reason to it, nor was it any consolation.
“Mom, don’t say such weird things,” our son said, a note of anger in his voice.
“It’s not weird,” Sumiyo sniffed, and hurried inside the house. A few days passed without any incident but, I think it was less than a week later, we were at the dinner table when suddenly Sumiyo started barking.
“Arf” was the sound she made. Chiro had a high-pitched bark. She sounded exactly like him. Perhaps because she had studied magic tricks, she may have been cleverer than most people at mimicry, but nevertheless, she sounded exactly like him.
“Quit your stupid joke,” I said, but Sumiyo paid no attention. For the rest of the meal, she continued to bark. Arf, arf, arf. Both our son and I lost our appetites and quickly got up from the table.
The next day Sumiyo was back to her usual self, but our son was infuriated. Mom, say you’re sorry, he demanded persistently. Sumiyo was completely indifferent.
But he’s been reincarnated. Chiro’s inside me now. The casual way in which she said it only intensified his pique. Ultimately, neither one of them would concede to the other. This was the source of the strained relationship between them, and after our son graduated from high school, he decided to go off to a faraway university, and he stayed there and found a job. He rarely visited, even after his own child was born.
I would ask Sumiyo, Don’t you love your grandchild? Don’t you have any desire to see him?
“Not particularly,” she would say.
Then, Sumiyo disappeared.
“SO, THEN, WHERE are we?” I asked, for the umpteenth time. And still, Sensei did not reply.
Perhaps Sumiyo couldn’t bear misfortune. Perhaps she couldn’t stand feeling unhappy.
“Sensei,” I called out. “You cared deeply for Sumiyo, didn’t you?”
Sensei made a harrumphing sound and glared at me. “Whether I cared for her or not, she was a selfish woman.”
“Was she?”
“Selfish, headstrong, and temperamental.”
“They all mean the same thing.”
“Yes, they do.”
The tidal flat was now completely obscured by haze. Where we were, the place where Sensei and I stood, to-go glasses of saké in hand, appeared to be nothing but air, all around us.
“Where are we?”
“This place is, well, here.”
Once in a while, children’s voices would rise up from below. The voices were sluggish and distant.
“We were young, Sumiyo and I.”
“You’re still young.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Sensei, I’ve had enough of these glasses of saké.”
“Shall we go down there and dig for littleneck clams?”
“We can’t eat them raw.”
“We could build a fire and roast them.”
“Roast them?”
“You’re right, it’s too much trouble.”
Something made a rustling sound. It was the camphor tree murmuring outside my window. This was a pleasant time of year. It rained often, but the rain-slicked leaves on the camphor tree gleamed lustrously. Sensei smoked his cigarette somewhat distractedly.
This place is a borderline. Sensei seemed to have moved his lips, but in fact, I couldn’t tell if he had spoken or not.
“How long have you been coming here?” I asked, and Sensei smiled.
“Perhaps since around when I was your age. Somehow I just had to urge to come here.”
Sensei, let’s go back to Satoru’s place. I don’t want to stay in this strange place anymore. Let’s hurry back, I called out to Sensei. Let’s go back.
But how do we get out of this place? Sensei replied.
A flurry of voices rose up from the tidal flat. The camphor tree outside the window made a rustling murmur. Sensei and I stood there in a daze, to-go glasses of saké in our hands. The leaves of the camphor tree outside my window murmured, Come here.
The Cricket
LATELY, FOR A while now, I haven’t seen Sensei.
And it’s not because we ended up in that strange place together—it’s because I’m avoiding him.
I don’t go anywhere near Satoru’s place. I don’t take evening walks on my days off either. Instead of wandering around the old market in the shopping district, I hurriedly do my shopping at the big supermarket by the station. I don’t go to the used bookstore or the two bookshops in the neighborhood. I figure if I can manage not to do these things, than maybe I won’t run into Sensei. Should be easy.
Easy enough that I could probably manage not to see Sensei for the rest of my life. And if I never saw him again, then maybe I could move on.
“It grows because you plant it.” This was a phrase often repeated by my great-aunt when she was alive. As old as she was, my great-aunt was still more enlightened than my own mother. After her husband, my great-uncle, passed away, she had numerous “boyfriends” who doted on her as she dashed around to dinners and card games and croquet.
“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.”
My great-aunt was fond of wordplay and puns.
If I followed her theory, and didn’t see Sensei for a long time, then maybe my feelings for him would just wither away.
Which was why I’ve been avoiding him lately.
IF I LEFT my apartment and walked for a while alongside the big main road, then followed a street that led into a residential area before reaching the riverside, if I walked about one hundred meters further, there on the corner was Sensei’s house.
Sensei’s house was not on the riverfront; it was set back about three houses from the water. Up until about thirty years ago, whenever a big typhoon came through, the easily overflowing river would flood the neighborhood up to the houses’ floorboards. During the era of rapid economic growth, there were large-scale river improvements that enclosed the riverbank in concrete. The wall was dug quite deep, which also widened the river.
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