Strange Weather in Tokyo

by Hiromi Kawakami

  I can never seem to make it the same way.

  That’s because you use different tofu. They don’t sell this kind of tofu over where you live, Tsukiko, do they?

  After that, my mother fell silent. I was quiet too. Without speaking, I demolished the yudofu, dousing it with the saké soy sauce as I ate. 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.

  Tsukiko, the way you describe it sounds like how I might feel if, after all these years, I suddenly encountered my wife who ran away. But this is your family, who lives in the same neighborhood as you do. Surely you’re exaggerating a bit, aren’t you? That’s what Sensei might say.

  He might have pointed out that my mother and I seemed similar. Nevertheless, neither one of us was any good at chitchat. So we just avoided each other’s gaze until my brother and his family returned. The pale new year’s light shone on the veranda, reaching all the way to the foot of the kotatsu. Having finished eating, I carried the earthenware pot and small plates and chopsticks into the kitchen where my mother was at the sink. Shall I dry the dishes? I asked. My mother nodded, barely raising her head and smiling awkwardly. I smiled back just as uncomfortably. We stood next to each other silently and finished up the dishes.

  I went back to my apartment on the fourth of January, and for the next two days until I had to go back to work on the sixth, all I did was sleep. Unlike while I was at my mother’s house, this sleep was filled with dreams.

  After two days of work, I found myself off again. I wasn’t really tired anymore, so I just lazed in bed. I kept a teapot and teacup within arm’s reach, along with various books and magazines, and lay about while drinking tea and flipping through the pages. I ate a couple of mandarin oranges. Under the covers it was slightly warmer than my own body temperature, so I kept dozing off. Soon I’d wake again, and pick up another magazine. That was how I had forgotten to eat all day.

  Back atop my unmade bed, I held toilet paper to the bleeding wound on the sole of my foot as I waited for the dizzy spell to subside. My vision seemed like a TV screen on the blink, flickering and flashing. I lay down on my back and placed one hand over my heart. There was a slight delay between the beat of my heart and the throbbing pulse of my wound.

  It had still been faintly light outside when the bulb had gone out. But now, because I was still dizzy, I couldn’t tell whether or not it was twilight or if it had grown dark already.

  Apples heaped in a basket by my pillow gave off their fragrance. The perfume was intensified by the chilly winter air. I always quartered my apples before peeling them but, as I lay there in a daze, I thought of how my mother used a kitchen knife to peel an apple whole, in one long curly piece. I once peeled an apple for an old boyfriend. 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. And I didn’t want him to think that he was the one who had put me there either. It may not have mattered whether or not I found myself trapped there, but somehow I couldn’t manage to make light of it.

  When I peeled the apple, my boyfriend was astonished. So, you can peel an apple, huh? That’s how he said it.

  I think I can manage, I replied.

  Is that so?

  Yes, it is.

  Not long after this exchange, this boyfriend and I drifted apart. Neither one of us actually initiated it; we simply stopped calling each other. It wasn’t that I lost interest. The days just went by without us seeing each other.

  You’re a bit aloof, a friend told me. Your boyfriend called me several times, to ask for advice. “How does Tsukiko really feel about me?” he would ask. Why didn’t you ever call him? He was waiting for you.

  My friend fixed her gaze on me. I was bewildered. Why didn’t he ask me directly, instead of going to her? I simply couldn’t comprehend it. When I said as much to my friend, she just sighed. Tsukiko, she murmured, being in love makes people uncertain. Don’t you know what that’s like?

  But as far as I was concerned, that wasn’t the point. I couldn’t help but think it had been misguided of him to go to my friend—a third party—when he ought to have brought his uncertainty to me, the one who it involved.

  I’m sorry for putting you in that situation, I apologized. It’s illogical that he went to you with this. But now my friend drew an even deeper sigh.

  Illogical? What does logic have to do with this?

  At that point, it had already been more than three months since I had seen this boyfriend. My friend had gone on at length about this and that aspect of my relationship with him, but I had only been half listening. I was pretty sure that I wasn’t very good at this whole love thing. And if being in love required so much effort, then I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a part of it anyway. That friend ended up marrying that boyfriend a little more than six months later.

  My dizziness passed. I could now make out the ceiling. The lightbulb in this room hadn’t burnt out, it just wasn’t turned on yet. Outside it was dark. Cold air came in through the window. It was suddenly much chillier now that the sun was gone. Lazing in bed all day had brought up memories of the past. My foot wasn’t really bleeding anymore. I applied a large Band-Aid, then put on socks and slippers, and cleaned up the mess in front of the sink.

  The glass shards glimmered slightly in the light reflected from the now-illuminated bulb in the next room. I had, in fact, been very much in love with that boyfriend. I guess I should have called him back then. I had wanted to at the time, but the prospect of hearing his cold voice on the other end of the line had frozen me in place. I hadn’t known that he felt the same way. By the time I found out, my feelings had already been oddly distorted, squashed down into the furthest reaches of my heart. I had dutifully attended the wedding of my friend and my boyfriend. Someone had made a toast, saying their love was fated in the stars.

  “A love fated in the stars.” As I sat there, watching the happy couple seated on the wedding platform and listening to the toast, I remember thinking to myself there wasn’t a chance in a million that I would ever encounter “a love fated in the stars.”

  I had a craving for an apple so I took one from the basket. I tried to peel it the way my mother did. Partway around, the skin broke off. I suddenly burst into tears, which took me by surprise. I was cutting an apple, not chopping onions—why should there be tears? I kept crying in between bites of the apple. The crisp sound of my chewing alternated with the plink, plink of my tears as they fell into the stainless steel sink. Standing there, I busied myself with eating and crying.

  I put on a heavy coat and left the apartment. I’d had this coat for years. Deep green, worn, and fuzzy, it was still a very warm coat. I always felt colder than usual after a crying jag. I’d finished my apple and had enough of sitting in my apartment, shivering. I put on a loose-fitting red sweater, which I’d also had for years, over brown wool pants. I changed into bulky socks, slid on thick-soled sneakers and, lastly, gloves, and went out the door.

  The three stars of Orion’s belt were clearly visible in the sky. I walked straight ahead. I tried to maintain a brisk pace, and I started to warm up after I’d walked for a while. A dog barked at me from somewhere, and instantly I burst into tears. I would soon turn forty, yet here I was acting like a little girl. I kept walking, swinging my arms like a child. When I came across an empty can, I kicked it. I grabbed and pulled at the tall, withered grass on the side of the street. Several people on bicycles rushed past me, coming from the station. One of t
hem didn’t have his light on, and when we almost collided, he yelled at me. Tears welled up anew. I had the urge to sit down right there and sob, but it was too cold for that.

  I had completely regressed. I stood in front of a bus stop. After waiting ten minutes, there was still no bus. I checked the bus schedule and saw that the last bus had already come and gone. I felt even more lonesome. I stamped my feet. I could not get warm. A grown woman would know how to get warm in a situation like this. But, for the moment, I was a child and helpless.

  I decided to head toward the station. The familiar streets seemed alienating somehow. I felt just like a child who had tarried on her way, and now it was dark out and the streets that led back home seemed unrecognizable.

  Sensei, I whispered. Sensei, I can’t find my way home.

  But Sensei wasn’t here. I wondered where he was, on a night like this. It made me realize that I had never called Sensei on the telephone. We always met by chance, then we’d happen to go for a walk together. Or I would show up at his house, and we’d end up drinking together. Sometimes a month would go by without seeing or speaking to each other. In the past, if I didn’t hear from a boyfriend or if we didn’t have a date for a month, I’d be seized with worry. I’d wonder if, during that time, he’d completely vanished from my life, or become a stranger to me.

  Sensei and I didn’t see each other very often. It stands to reason, since we weren’t a couple. Yet even when we were apart, Sensei never seemed far away. Sensei would always be Sensei. On a night like this, I knew he was out there somewhere.

  Feeling more and more forlorn, I began to sing. I started out with “How lovely, spring has come to the Sumida River,” but it was completely out of keeping with the cold night. I racked my brain for a winter song but couldn’t call any to mind. At last I remembered “The silver-white mountains, bathed in morning light,” a ski song. It didn’t quite fit my mood but I didn’t have much choice since I couldn’t come up with any other winter songs, and I went on singing.

  Is it snow or is it mist, fluttering in the air,

  Oh, as I rush down the hill, down the hill.

  I remembered the words clearly. Not just the first verse but the second verse as well. I was surprised that I could resurrect such lines as “Oh what fun, bounding with such skill.” I was feeling a little better so I moved on to the third verse, but no matter how I tried, the last part would not come back to me. I could remember “The trees above and the white snow beneath” but not the last four bars.

  I stopped and stood there in the darkness, trying to think. Every so often someone would walk by from the direction of the station. They avoided me as I stood rooted to the spot. And when I started singing snatches of the third verse under my breath, they gave me an even wider berth.

  Still unable to remember the last words, I felt like crying again. My feet started walking of their own accord as my tears started flowing on their own as well. Tsukiko. I heard my name but didn’t turn around. I figured it must have been in my head. After all, Sensei wouldn’t very well just appear here.

  Tsukiko. I heard someone call my name again.

  I turned around this time, only to see Sensei standing there with his perfect posture. He was wearing a lightweight but warm-looking coat and carrying his briefcase, as always.

  Sensei, what are you doing here?

  Taking a walk. It’s a lovely evening.

  Just to be sure that it really was Sensei, I surreptitiously pinched the back of my hand. It hurt. This was the first time in my life that I realized people actually did such a thing—pinched themselves to make sure they weren’t dreaming.

  Sensei, I called out. He was a little ways away from me, so I called out softly.

  Tsukiko, he replied, enunciating my name.

  We stood there for a moment, facing each other in the darkness, and I no longer felt like crying. Which was a relief, since I had started to worry that my tears would never stop. And I didn’t even want to imagine what Sensei might say to me if he saw me crying.

  Tsukiko, the last verse, it’s “Oh, the mountain calls to me,” Sensei said.

  What?

  The words to the ski song. I used to ski a bit myself back in the day.

  Sensei and I began walking side by side. We headed toward the station. Satoru’s bar is closed on holidays, I said.

  Sensei nodded, still facing forward. It would be good for us to go somewhere else for a change. Tsukiko. I just realized this will be our first drink together this year. That’s right—happy new year, Tsukiko.

  Next to Satoru’s place was another bar with a red paper lantern hanging out front. We went in and sat down with our coats still on. We ordered draft beer and drained our glasses in one gulp. Tsukiko, you remind me of something, Sensei said after his first quaff. What is it . . . ? Hmm, it’s on the tip of my tongue.

  I ordered yudofu and Sensei ordered yellowtail teriyaki. A-ha, I’ve got it! With your green coat, red sweater, and brown pants, you look like a Christmas tree! Sensei said in a slightly high-pitched voice.

  But it’s already New Year’s, I replied.

  Did you spend Christmas with your boyfriend, Tsukiko? Sensei asked.

  I did not.

  Do you have a boyfriend, Tsukiko?

  Yeah, I’ve got one or two, or ten boyfriends, even.

  I see, I see.

  We soon switched to saké. I picked up the bottle of hot saké and filled Sensei’s cup. I felt a sudden rush of warmth in my body, and felt the tears well up once again. But I didn’t cry. It’s always better to drink than to cry. Sensei, happy new year. I wish you all the best in the coming year, I said in one breath.

  Sensei laughed. Tsukiko, what a lovely greeting. Well done! Sensei patted me on the head as he complimented me. With his hand still on my head, I took a long sip of saké.

  Karma

  I unexpectedly ran into Sensei as I was walking along the street.

  I had been lazing about in bed until past noon. Work had been extremely busy for the past month. It was always close to midnight by the time I got home. For days on end, I would hastily scrub my face before falling into bed, without bothering with my nighttime bath. Even on weekends, I almost always went in to the office. I had been eating terribly and, as a result, I looked drawn and haggard. 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.

  Then at last on Friday—yesterday—I had successfully gotten through a major portion of the work. For the first time in what felt like ages, I slept in on Saturday morning. After having a good lie-in, I ran a hot bath, right to the brim, and took a magazine in with me. I washed my hair and immersed myself countless times in the hot water, into which I had trickled a wonderfully scented potion, occasionally stepping out to cool off, all the while perusing about halfway through the magazine. I must have spent nearly two hours in the bathroom.

  I drained the water from the bath and quickly scrubbed the tub, and then I pranced about my apartment, naked except for a towel twisted atop my head. It was one of those moments when I think to myself, I’m glad to be alone. I opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of mineral water, poured half of it into a glass, and gulped it down. It made me think about how I had hated mineral water when I was younger. In my twenties, I had traveled to France with a girlfriend of mine, and we had gone into a café to get something to drink. I just wanted plain, regular water, but when I ordered “Water,” they brought out mineral water. I was so parched and hoping to quench my thirst, but the moment I swallowed it down, I choked and nearly threw up. Yet I was so thirsty. And here was water, right in front of me. Yet this water—with bubbles springing up from the carbonation—was a bitter mouthful. Even had I wanted to drink it, my throat would have rejected it. But since I didn’t know enough French to say, “I would prefer still wa
ter rather than water with gas,” I forced my friend to share with me the lemonade that she had ordered. It was terribly sweet—awful, really. That was before I was in the habit of slaking my thirst with beer instead of water.

  I started to enjoy carbonated water when I was in my mid-thirties, around the time I started drinking highballs and shochu with soda and the like. At some point I started keeping a few tall green bottles of Wilkinson soda water in the fridge. For that matter, I also keep a few bottles of Wilkinson ginger ale, for the occasional times when a friend who doesn’t really drink stops by. In general—with clothes or food or gadgets—I have no particular brand loyalty, but when it comes to soda water, the only kind I drink is Wilkinson soda water. The main reason is probably because the liquor store two minutes away happens to carry Wilkinson brand soda water. That may seem like happenstance, but if I were to move and there were no liquor store in my new neighborhood, or if there were one and it didn’t carry Wilkinson’s superior products, then I would probably no longer bother keeping soda water around at all. That’s the extent of my partiality.

  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 was still naked, standing idly in front of the full-length mirror. I had a habit of acting as though I were having a conversation with someone beside me—with the me who was not really right there beside me—as if to validate these random effervescences. What I see in the mirror is not my own lithe, naked body, more than necessarily subject to gravity—I’m not speaking to the me who is visible there, but rather to an invisible version of myself that I sense hovering somewhere in the room.

  I stayed in my apartment until evening, passing the time leisurely reading a book. At one point I felt sleepy again and napped for about half an hour. When I awoke, I opened the curtains to see that it was completely dark out. It was early February, and according to the lunar calendar the first day of spring had passed, but the days were still short. I find something quite carefree about the days around the winter solstice, when the daylight is so brief it seems like it’s chasing you. Knowing that it will soon be dark anyway, 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.