Across the stream flowing from Mitarashi pond, many white tents were set up on the riding ground that stretched north-south. People moved among them. Despite being in the forest, it was hard to escape the mugginess of summer, and some people walked around wiping their sweat away with towels. They roamed from tent to tent with a deviant gleam in their eyes, never tiring of searching through wooden boxes packed with grimy old things.
On the navy streamer, flapping and fluttering, were the words KYOTO ANTIQUARIAN BOOKFAIR.
I headed for Tadasu no Mori in the early afternoon.
But as I wandered the bookfair, I became extremely bored. No matter where I went, it was all used books—and I didn’t see the girl on my mind. Not only that, but it was a late-summer afternoon, so it was terribly humid.
Since I had nothing to do, I practiced reaching out for the same book as she did, but as I rehearsed diligently in my own fashion, I grew furious with myself for having nothing better to do than acquire proficiency in this utterly nontransferable skill.
An endless sea of books surrounded me as I stewed with a face like a Daruma doll. Their covers called out to me, How about reading us and growing a little wiser, Boss? But I was already sick of entrusting my hopes to them. Though I read and read, never did I ever reach the final volume, nor could I throw away my books and rally in the streets… After reading for superficial reasons, I hadn’t even played with the flames of love, as they were over the mountains, far to wander. My once-pure soul was covered in dust and disgrace, and my youth was wasted right on schedule.
O God of Used Bookfairs, I ask that you grant me not wisdom first, but profit.
After that, please grant me wisdom as well.
In the middle of the riding ground was a resting area furnished with benches covered in felt. I sat down on one and wiped away my sweat. When I looked up, desperate to find air that didn’t smell like old books, I could see the blue summer sky through the treetops.
As I absentmindedly watched the people coming and going through the space, I noticed grimy older guys, terribly serious university-student types, fashionable girls giving off art-school vibes, and elderly men with long beards who looked like hermits. Among them, I saw young men and women, sweaty hand in sweaty hand, going around browsing books together, which was absolutely stifling.
Then I jumped with a start.
In front of one of the used booksellers stood a petite woman gazing intently at a pocket paperback, and from the back, she looked a lot like the girl. Her black hair, cut short for the summer, gleamed in the sun. Ever since she’d joined the club, I willingly yielded as her follower and spent months just staring at her from behind; I could be recognized as the global authority on that sight. If I’m the one saying there was a resemblance, there was no doubt about it.
I leaped to my feet.
As soon as I set off running, I crashed into a child walking my way.
The kid spun around, staggered, and finally dropped onto their bottom. Meanwhile, I stumbled, clicking my tongue, and glared at the little person obstructing my path to love. It was a boy, probably in late elementary school. Though he didn’t cry out, his big, horribly beautiful eyes rapidly filled with tears, and he stared at my chest. When I looked down, my shirt held the wreckage of the soft serve he’d apparently been licking.
“Dammit. How are you going to fix this?” I groaned. “It’s everywhere.”
“Before you start complaining, shouldn’t you say you’re sorry?” he suddenly said in a hoarse, mature-sounding voice as he dusted himself off. “Or are you incapable of apologizing when you go and ruin someone’s fun?” Then he scornfully pointed at the ice cream on my shirt. “You owe me for that!”
I was astounded by his powerful tone—it brooked no argument.
He grabbed my arm and tried to drag me back to the food stall.
“Hold up, how old are you?”
“This year, I’m ten. What about it?”
“Fine. I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I’ll pay you back. Stop pulling on me.”
The image of a future with her had descended on the bookfair for a moment before receding into the distance.
She was reading a paperback with incredible enthusiasm. I must have found the sight so charming because she had fallen in love with that book. They say maidens in love are beautiful. But what did these grimy old books intend to do after deceiving her so? For a bunch of old papers, they’re awfully bold, I fumed.
I stared so hard at the back of her head, I practically burned a hole in it and called out to her in my mind: If you have time to read those, then read me! There are quite a lot of interesting things written here.
If you’ll excuse me, I will take this opportunity to explain. The book I was absorbed in reading at the time was Gerald Durrell’s Birds, Beasts, and Relatives.
That day was a day worth commemorating: It was my used bookfair debut, after all.
I’m sure I’ll never forget how moved I was when I stepped into Tadasu no Mori and saw the seemingly endless flood of used books bathed in the cicadas’ song. Just the thought that I was sure to encounter a wonderful book in this ocean gave me shivers and filled me with enthusiasm. I did my bipedal robot dance at the entrance to the fair to express my eagerness and delight.
Used booksellers lined both sides of the riding ground, and all of them caught my eye. If one bookseller on the right shouted, We’ve got some interesting stuff here! another one on the left would shout, But mine are more interesting! I fidgeted, overwhelmed, like a firefly tempted by the tasty waters of the Lake Biwa Canal. If that’s how it was going to be, I had to resolve myself to see anything and everything.
And the book I encountered was Birds, Beasts, and Relatives. It seemed to lean out from the hundred-yen paperback shelf, calling out to me. When I took the book in my hands, I moaned a little, which I’m embarrassed to admit sounded rather erotic… But I couldn’t help it. Never for a moment had I forgotten Birds, Beasts, and Relatives. I learned of Gerald Durrell in junior high when I read My Family and Other Animals, a book of unparalleled enjoyment, and years had passed since I heard rumors of a sequel. That I should encounter such a book the moment I set foot in a used bookfair for the first time ever was nothing if not amazing luck.
And to think the book I had wanted since I was in junior high cost only a single hundred-yen coin! What happy news for me, as someone who couldn’t quite trust her wallet. Viva beginner’s luck! Or do I have a used bookfair aptitude? I grew even more excited.
Unable to do anything whatsoever about the smile creeping over my face, I kept walking along with a rather suspicious-looking grin—even for me—when a man wearing a Japanese yukata called to me with a “Hey!” from where he was sitting on a bench in the center of the riding ground. His haul for that day was stacked there, and he seemed to be savoring the sweet taste of victory as he wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. Next to him was a lady with a parasol who looked to be in her mid-thirties, also in traditional Japanese garments, quietly reading a volume from the collected works of Sakunosuke Oda.
“It’s been a while, Mr. Higuchi.” I bobbed my head.
He smiled. “Not since that night, right? How have you been? Still drinking?”
“I’m fine, thank you. But I haven’t had much occasion to drink lately.”
“Then we should go drinking. Hanuki’s been wanting to see you.”
“She isn’t here today?”
“She hates used books. Apparently, anyone who has no problem collecting these filthy things is an idiot.”
I met Mr. Higuchi one night in Kiyamachi.
Led by him and Ms. Hanuki, I had a truly bizarrific night. You could say they really taught me how to fully enjoy the strangeness of the streets after dark. But although we drank a ton and talked so much, I still had no idea who they were. I didn’t even know why he always wore a yukata.
“I’ll treat you to stir-fried noodles.” He stood up.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly let you treat
me, Mr. Higuchi…”
“Right? I only treat someone about once every quarter century, but today is fine—because I found something.” Mr. Higuchi proudly showed me a few books.
There were four volumes with the same binding in different colors that reminded me of the sorts of books I’d find in my grandmother’s living room. They had weird titles like Justine and Balthazar. I saw it was a series of novels by Lawrence Durrell called The Alexandria Quartet. When I thought, Ah, this has an air of “literature” about it, and that has almost nothing to do with me, I was even more inclined to respect Mr. Higuchi. He must be capable of sustaining this utterly good-for-nothing lifestyle and hard-core obfuscation of his personal details precisely due to his profound educational background. Yes, indeed.
But Mr. Higuchi declared he had no interest in the books and didn’t know what they were about. “Someone I know wants these, so I’m going to sell them for quite a price. And I have another way to rake in a pretty penny today, too. You can’t go wrong sticking with me.” Mr. Higuchi wrapped the books up in a cloth bundle and set off walking. “You know, there are people in this world willing to pay premium to buy bundles of papers stained with ink,” he marveled. “Boy, am I thankful for books.”
From there we headed for a stall on the south end of the riding ground. On the way, I saw an older member from my club. He was walking dejectedly north. Next to him was a little boy so adorable he looked like a girl. The kid was licking some soft serve while keeping a tight hold on the hem of my clubmate’s shirt.
Maybe that’s his brother? I thought as I watched them pass by. But I continued on with the goal of stir-fried noodles in mind.
It’s not as if I was letting that unlikable boy drag me around by choice.
“I bought you your soft serve, so you’re satisfied now, right? Scram.”
“Nah.”
“Hey, don’t pull on my shirt!”
“Oh, don’t be such a sourpuss.”
“What’s up with that? Why do you talk like an old man?”
“Because I’m an extremely old soul. Older than you.”
“Don’t you know how to respect your elders? This is why I hate kids.”
“What we see in others is a reflection of ourselves.”
I stopped in my tracks and turned to glare at him in traditional Kabuki fashion, but he was completely unfazed.
In the middle of the riding ground stood a skinny boy. In one hand, he held the hem of my shirt, and in the other, a soft serve cone. Every time he licked it, he looked up as if to stick his tongue out at me. His soft brown hair blew in the hot breeze. He had big, pretty eyes with lashes so long, it seemed as if he’d generate wind with every blink. If he cut out the spiteful old-man talk, he’d probably be mistaken for a girl.
I kept walking.
“Whatever, just don’t follow me. I’m busy.”
“There’s no one with more time on their hands than someone who says they’re busy. They feel guilty for having nothing to do, so they go around saying how busy they are. I mean, someone who was really busy wouldn’t have time to be browsing a used bookfair—your logic’s flawed!”
“Your youth is showing, kid!” I laughed at him. “In busyness, there is leisure, and in leisure, there is busyness. Maybe to a child like you, I appear to be merely browsing. But at times like these, my soul is a whirlwind of activity. You’re only seeing the eye of the storm.”
“Liar. You came up with that just now.”
“Shut up. I’m constantly keeping watch over my surroundings, not missing so much as a pin drop. If you’re not maintaining that level of alertness, you’ll never find a treasure in the midst of such commotion like this used bookfair. If you’re out here playing around, you’re gonna get hurt!”
“But you’re not looking for books.” He snickered. “You’re looking for a female.”
“Don’t be stupid!” I chastised. “And the word female shouldn’t roll off your tongue like that when you’re a kid. At least say lady!”
“That petite one with the black hair cut short, right? With fair skin.”
I turned around and grabbed him by the shoulders. His delicate body shook like a marionette, but he didn’t even get upset. A frightful little boy!
I lowered my voice. “Hey, how did you know that?”
“When you bumped into me, you were staring unabashedly at the girl by the stand over there, right? I’d have to be an idiot not to know.”
I took my hands off the boy’s shoulders and brushed the wrinkles out of his shirt.
“You’re a formidable fellow,” I said. “That’s a compliment, so you better appreciate it.”
“I don’t, really, but whatever,” he said, loudly crunching into his cone.
The shadow of a bird with big wings glided over the riding ground.
Suddenly, a big shadow passed overhead. It might have been a bird.
As I ate the noodles with Mr. Higuchi, I thought about books and coincidences.
For example, encountering the book I’ve been in search of for years. Or walking along thinking about a book and having it suddenly appear before your eyes. Or discovering a passage about the same event or figure in two totally unrelated books. Or an extreme example: I’ve heard it’s possible for you to sell a book, only to have it do its rounds in used booksellers and come back to your arms.
There are so many books being bought and sold, making their way around this world, that maybe it’s only natural for such coincidences to occur. Perhaps we unconsciously select which books to encounter. Or maybe we think it’s a coincidence, but it’s just that we can’t see the tangled threads of fate. Even if I understand all those things logically, when I come across a coincidence to do with books, I end up feeling as if it’s some kind of destiny. I’m the sort of person who would like to believe in that.
Full of noodles, I caressed my copy of Birds, Beasts, and Relatives and spoke of those things to Mr. Higuchi.
“There’s a god orchestrating all those mysteries,” Mr. Higuchi said casually. “Have you ever heard of the God of Used Bookfairs?”
“No, never.”
“The God of Used Bookfairs is behind all the various mysteries to do with used books that occur in this world. It assists with those blessed encounters with the book you’ve been pining after, it brings men and women together through used books, and it organizes windfalls for used booksellers. Serious book collectors all worship this god at altars in their homes, never failing to pray both morning and night. Additionally, at the beginning of each month, they recite a ritual prayer and make an offering of a used book. Then that night, they hold a book club and a banquet for the god, reading used books and eating delicious dishes all night long. Collectors can’t neglect this ceremony no matter how busy they may be. The God of Used Bookfairs facilitates meetings between collectors and the books of their dreams, but on the other hand, it also metes out terrifying punishments.”
“What sort of punishments…?” I trembled.
“Books abruptly disappear from the shelves of the collectors who ignore the god. The God of Used Bookfairs abducts them!”
“Oh, how horrible!”
Mr. Higuchi got a strange grin on his face. “The God of Used Bookfairs is said to appear in many forms, so no one knows what it really looks like. One time, it might be a man with an angular face wearing glasses; another, it might be an elderly scholar, or a graceful woman in Japanese dress, or a beautiful boy with rosy cheeks, or a man of unknown age wearing a faded yukata for some reason, or a black-haired maiden… The god takes on their appearances and descends on used bookfairs. Then it mingles with the booklovers and sneaks unbelievably valuable books onto the shelves before leaving again. And since it’s the work of a god, the booksellers don’t notice the increase in books. The god leaves behind the books it stole from impious collectors.”
I thought of the books I was quietly amassing at home. I’d never prayed to the God of Used Bookfairs. In a panic, I brought my palms together and prayed,
“Namu-namu!” This is a multipurpose prayer I developed myself; I’ve used it often ever since I was a little girl reading picture books.
“Yes! We must hurry and pray! Namu-namu!”
“Namu-namu!”
“Books get published and bought by people. Then those people let go of them, and when a book passes to another person, it gets to live again. In that sense, books are reborn over and over, connecting people as they go. That’s why, sometimes cruelly, the god releases used books into the world. Imprudent collectors, beware!” Mr. Higuchi laughed at the summer sky as if he were the god descended onto this bench. Then he looked up and said, “It’s gotten a bit cloudy, hasn’t it?”
The sky had been unbelievably bright until a little while ago but now had become partly cloudy.
With thick gray clouds peeking down from above the treetops, the humidity grew even more intense. When I thought there might be a downpour, I became frantic. At this rate, I’d fail to find her and end up damp from raindrops and tears.
That the self-proclaimed global authority on the view of her posterior was unable to exhibit his true skills was entirely due to the boy tagging along behind him. This was a clear violation of the right to have no choice but to pursue the black-haired maiden of their dreams. Each and every person in the world should be granted this basic human right in equal measure.
Whenever I tried to channel my abilities to find her location, the boy would make an unnecessary remark in that pretentious way of his: “Oh, you’re looking for the one you love.” It really pissed me off, but that phrase, the one you love, also struck me as elegant and wonderful.
“And what if I wasn’t looking for the one I love?”
The boy tugged on my shirt and said, “What kind of books are you looking for?”
“Oh, shush. Super-hard-core, difficult books. Kids would never understand them.”
The Night Is Short, Walk on Girl Page 6