I gazed on this present situation while sipping beer and pecking from the two bowls. The salad was a potato salad made with onions and carrots, and the stew contained shiitake mushrooms, lotus roots, chestnuts, and fried bean curd simmered in a sweet broth. Since I made do with a light meal of delivery soba for my dinner that day, my chopsticks got busy picking through her offerings.
Honoka is a strict vegetarian, but she’s quite the expert at seasoning side dishes like these, which she’d prepare from time to time for me; they were all quite tasty for sure.
I became disgusted with eating animal meat, she’s told me since I’ve gotten to know her. I don’t care what it is—beef, pork, chicken, fish or whatever! I’ve just become sick of the idea of killing animals for food.
Perhaps influenced by Honoka, even Raita—someone who never ate fish anyway—seems to have considerably cut down, too, on his intake of meat—like beef, chicken, pork—these days.
Back when I used to tutor Honoka, there was a time she looked dreadfully hurt when I killed a mosquito that had strayed into her room.
A few minutes later, Honoka, the junior high student that she was then, said with a self-conscious laugh, "I’m
incapable of even killing an insect, you know. But then she surprisingly added, her face turning stony, A person like that can’t live for long, I suppose."
Her attitude regarding living things isn’t a bad one, I think. But I also feel she’s right in her belief that people with such an attitude end up having short lives. It’s just not instinctive, and the whole idea of not killing living things goes against the preordained condition of human existence.
There’s really no need, I recall saying at the time, to lead a long life if it means you have to put up with things you don’t want to.
I used to moonlight as a tutor for a while even after I joined my company. My early years in the firm had proved costly in many ways: there was the obligation to send money to my mother and younger sister, which I’d been doing since my school days, and my younger sister, who is four years younger than me, made her way into a local junior college. Even though the take-home pay from a publishing company is considered high, the entry-level wage I received was hardly enough to manage the hefty entrance fee and school expenses for my sister, along with the living expenses she sustained leading a single life.
I was first assigned a post in the accounting department. The others who’d entered the company with me all hoped to get into the editorial department, but not me; just because I chose to work at a publishing house, that didn’t at all mean that I was bent on becoming an editor. I’d taken the entrance exam for my present company simply because the salary was attractive. And, after getting admitted, when I expressed my interest in the operations division, they assigned me to accounting, just as I wished. Thanks to that, I wasn’t burdened with any overtime other than twice a year when I had to prepare financial reports, so I was basically free to spend my evenings moonlighting, just like in my school days.
Honoka was in the ninth grade when I tutored her. It lasted for a year, from the end of my second through my third year at the company.
It was rather grueling, giving her lessons—for three hours, from seven to ten in the evening—on how to pass the entrance examination. But it was worth it, since she passed with flying colors and was admitted into the Keio high school for girls. Today, she’s a junior at Keio University, majoring in literature and psychology.
As for me, after working in the accounting department for two years, I was transferred to the editorial department of a weekly magazine without my say-so, and since then working part-time really has become impossible. Still, there was no need to moonlight anymore because I began to earn loads of overtime pay during my years at the weekly, and by the third year in the company, my salary was well above the amount for even a manager of a blue-chip corporation, so financially speaking I was pretty sound, until three years ago when my mother fell ill and her medical bills began to pile up.
It was exactly half a year ago, some time during the valley of the Golden Week period—the holiday-studded week in May—when Honoka suddenly called my office out of the blue. I hadn’t heard from her at all since the day we met to celebrate her success with her high school exam.
I met Honoka again for the first time in five years.
Back in her junior high days she used to be an unstable girl, mentally and physically, repeatedly suffering from alternating bouts of anorexia and bulimic bingeing, but even after becoming a college student it didn’t appear as though she was quite relieved of her plight. We met in a restaurant in Ginza. As ever, she only ate vegetables, but even then, only a small amount, taking one or two dainty bites after prodding the food with her chopsticks, gulping down beer most of the time. She’d grown remarkably, to a height of nearly 170 centimeters. Upon inquiring she told me that she weighed approximately forty kilos.
The fact that her disorder was rooted in her household environment had been clear to me since I began to visit her at home. Her father worked for the National Aerospace Laboratory and was renowned as the leading authority on rocket development in Japan, but he spent most of his time away from his family, living in the United States or Tanegashima, neglecting them for the most part. The mother was a musician, and she too was absent from the home for a third of the year, performing at recitals or presenting lectures at local music colleges. Despite her absence, this mother was a tyrant to Honoka and a brother three years younger than her, putting the siblings through a regimen of hyper-education.
Even while we ate, Honoka remained silent about why she’d called me up suddenly. As long as she didn’t say anything, I was unable to broach the subject myself, but judging from the fact that she hadn’t changed—she’d gotten completely drunk in a matter of two hours—I simply couldn’t let her return home, so I brought her back to
my apartment.
On our way back, in the taxi, Honoka was breathing painfully in her inebriated state and said, Even today, at the station, on the platform, I saw a young mother scolding her small child like a crazy person. The kid was crying her eyes out but the mother didn’t give a damn, shouting at her as if she’d really gone insane. If she was going to be so cruel to her own child, she should’ve never brought her into the world. It was terrible! The world is a miserable place, she said to no one in particular, sighing.
Such a mother should die early for the good of the child, I said, and she fell silent for a while. Then she muttered, Still, to that child, she’s the only mother she’s ever going to have.
I spread out a futon in the six-tatami mat room, laid her down on it, and slowly and carefully wiped her face and the back of her neck with a cold wet towel to sober her up.
I’m sorry, sensei, for being such a nuisance, Honoka said, closing her eyes as she let out a heavy sigh.
Hey, I said after a while, do you want to die?
I don’t know, she answered.
If you do, you should die in this room. No one’s going to stop you. If you’re feeling lonely dying alone, let me know. I just might be able to help.
Without saying a word, she winced, tears from her closed eyelids spilled down the cheeks of her gaunt face.
Nobody was there. I thought about calling someone, but there wasn’t anyone I could call.
I gripped her hand. It was a bony and cold hand.
Honoka cried quietly.
She continued to cry for a very long time until, suddenly, while wiping her tears away with the towel, she asked in response, Do you want to die too, sensei?
When I said, I don’t know, she said, Obviously.
Finally wearing a faint smile, she just fell asleep as though she’d dropped dead. While gazing at her skinny, sleeping face, I felt that she probably thought about dying often. To many of us living in this day and age who are still considered young, especially like her, and rather less like me, it’s probably just an ordinary fact of life. It’s certainly true that this world is terribly unappealing to l
ive in, but that’s been the case throughout the ages. I distinctly felt, however, that I wasn’t as inclined to die as Honoka was. I don’t think there’s much overlap between feeling like you should’ve never been born and hoping for death.
It’s just that, since way back when, whenever I’d confess to someone something like I wish I’d never been born, or I never asked anyone to give birth to me, or I’d be more comfortable dead!, in the few experiences I’ve had, the kinder this someone the more predictably he or she would respond by saying something like, So why don’t you go ahead and die already!
If you think about this a little, such a response is a prime example of the power of reverse psychology: basically, the person saying such a thing, after saying such a thing, would go on to listen to my story with deep appreciation, and then reveal all kinds of stories related to his or her own experiences, earnestly and warmly and wisely comforting and encouraging me in the process.
But I was always disappointed by those very words they uttered. In fact, I used to be so thoroughly disappointed that I hardly heard anything they’d tell me afterward.
First of all, there’s no reason to tell me to die just because I said that I wish I’d never been born. But let’s just say that I went even further and had actually declared that I wanted to die. Still, who the hell has the right to then bluntly advise me to die?
If you’re going to sing such a brutal tune, you should at least add, In that case I’ll die together with you.
It’s often said that there’s no way to stop a person who insists on dying, that there’s no hope to save a person attracted to death. But that’s false. A suicide can be prevented if a person continues to be kept on watch twenty-four hours a day, even if you have to divide the work with others. I’ve always thought it’s possible to sharply reduce the suicide rate. The failure to do so has mainly been due to the strange hesitation exhibited by the people around those who commit suicide, and I’m convinced that what lies at the root of this hesitation is the evil trend spreading today: the worship of Western individualism.
As I heard Honoka breathing in her sleep, I wondered which question was more important to ask: Do I really want to die? or Do I really want not to die? To us mortals—for whom death is inevitable—I felt the latter was the far more important question.
I wonder what people would generally say if they were asked, Do you really don’t want to die? If so, what’s the reason? If you ask me, no matter how much I think about it, in however many ways, I feel that I won’t be able to work out any reason per se that’ll prove convincing enough to me, or to other people for that matter. However, people who have someone they love, or people with a family near and dear to them, most likely will answer that they wouldn’t want to die for the sake of such people, vaguely leaving it at that, not giving the matter any further thought.
Among them, some will also probably say it’s because they want to enjoy themselves, become happier, confusing our human destiny with death, evading the question altogether. Such a person is averting his eyes from the fact that he’s going to die, but I’m sure when his moment arrives, he’ll pay the price for sidestepping the issue and, consequently, will suffer all the more.
According to the writings of a certain physician, the number of suicides has increased since 1998 over a period of three consecutive years to over 30,000, indicating the third wave of sudden spikes in suicide rates recorded since World War II. The physician wrote:
The first wave, which peaked in 1958, transpired at a turbulent time when the revision of the US-Japan Security Treaty was imminent, with young people below the age of thirty accounting for over half of the overall suicides. The second wave occurred just before the nation rushed headlong into the period of the bubble economy that lasted from 1983 through 1986. The sudden increase back then was attributable to the same age-group. In the case of the third wave, which began in 1998, however, although an increase was registered in all age-groups, records show that the total increase was mainly accounted for by the Baby Boom generation whose members were in their early fifties.
So, apparently, this essay infers that at least ten thousand people below the age of thirty, like myself, in the first half of the third decade of the Showa era (1955—1965), committed suicide every year. I was surprised to read this statistic, thinking the figure was exaggerated. If it was accurate, it would mean that twenty-seven people were dying every day, which in turn meant that one young man or woman had committed suicide somewhere in Japan every thirty minutes without fail.
The physician also wrote:
However, the trend of seeing youth below the age of thirty accounting for half of all suicides has diminished since then. As of today, they only account for a little over ten percent. Young people have stopped committing suicide.
After reading the above, I wondered why it was that young people had stopped committing suicide, but I couldn’t find any good reason.
However, on the other hand, I was also utterly struck by the following thought at the time:
Why is it that I don’t commit suicide?
I couldn’t readily find an answer to that question.
Seated in front of Honoka, I drank beer for half an hour. She didn’t lift her face even once, her attention fixed on the writing pad. When I glanced at the wall clock, the hands were pointing to eleven. Although I didn’t know what she was writing, it was probably a report she had to finish for one of her classes. I was fed up pursuing any text outside of work, so I rarely read a book these days. If I did read anything it was at most the work of an author I was in charge of, or reference material that was required reading for work. So I didn’t feel any interest in whatever prose Honoka was composing before my eyes, though it’s still interesting to observe somebody at close range pouring their heart into their writing. The reason I liked tutoring wasn’t because I got to teach, but because I got to see how earnestly students like Honoka poured themselves into their studies.
A pleasant and hazy buzz spread throughout my body, making me feel drowsy. I quietly got up, washed the two small bowls at the sink, carefully crushed the beer cans and threw them into the disposal bag reserved for them. Before Honoka started frequenting the apartment, the great many cans of beer and bottles of wine and whiskey that Raita and I used to consume and throw away were left mixed up inside a massive trash bag which took up considerable space in the kitchen, but with the appearance of Miss Methodical here, before we knew it we were obediently following her rules, separating the trash and taking them out for disposal.
About to retire to my room after placing the tableware in a basket and washing my hands, I heard her voice saying, Shall I make some tea? I turned around and saw Honoka looking at me, her face relaxed. The writing pad was already put away, the books closed and stacked up at the edge of the table.
All right, I said. I’ll boil some water then. I poured mineral water into the kettle and put it on the stove; Honoka stayed away from tap water.
She came to my side and took out two glasses from the closet above the sink. Next, she fished from a small drawer attached to the sink a silver bag stashed with tea.
What’s up with those? I asked, eyeing the glasses.
After I found the tea the last time I stayed, I told myself I’d get proper glasses. I just bought them today in fact; three of them, including one for Raita.
They were clear, wide glasses.
Sure look pricey! I said.
Honoka laughed. Not really. They’re recycled—just 300 yen a pop.
Is that so?
You know, I’ve noticed something about you, sensei; as a consumer, you’re as bad as it gets.
I left the sink first and returned to the table.
This tea is far more top-notch, Honoka said, cutting open with a pair of scissors the seal of the vacuum-packed tea bag.
Who bought it?
My girlfriend. That reminds me, even she had nice things to say about the tea.
I know, right? It’s sold by this Chinese teas
hop that’s all the rage in Aoyama right now. I think a hundred grams of this will probably set you back around five thousand yen.
Honoka dropped some leaves into the glass with a spoon and slowly poured boiling water until the glass was about half full. Ah, smells good.
She held the rim of the glass and placed it before me, and then seated herself in a chair opposite mine after bringing her own glass.
I positioned my face close to the steam and detected a subtle honey-like aroma tickling my nostrils. It smelled nice indeed. The fine tealeaves, covered in something like downy hair, opened up slightly in the boiling water, their hue changing into a bright yellow and green in the transparent glass. One sip revealed a thick, sweet flavor.
Hmm, this is good, I said.
Honoka also seemed to be enjoying her sips.
It’s called Luxueyinzhen, she said, glancing at the label on the tea bag.
What’s that?
The characters stand for green, snow, silver, and needle—together they spell the name, Luxueyinzhen. I guess you’re not good at Chinese, are you sensei?
Guilty as charged. I’m absolutely clueless.
Actually you’re quite clueless about a lot of things, aren’t you! Such a shame. You seemed to know about everything back when you tutored me, she said, sounding oddly impressed.
Obviously!
But Kanji’s great, don’t you think? There’s a certain panache to it. In English, you’d just call this Luxueyinzhen tea green tea, and as for the names of black teas and coffees, well, they’re mostly just derived from place names—you simply don’t come across such a wonderful name like Luxueyinzhen now, do you!?
You think?
"Oh yes, most certainly! And that’s why I don’t like English. Why, just today in class we were asked to translate from Japanese into English, and the word robai came up. What do you think the correct English translation for this word is?"
"Well, the word robai translates to something like ‘confusion’ or ‘the state of being upset,’ doesn’t it?"
The Part of Me That Isn't Broken Inside Page 5