In the Woods of Memory

by Shun Medoruma

  OKINAWAN WRITER [2005]

  —Surprised to hear from me, aren’t you? Getting a video like this out of the blue. As you can see, I’ve changed quite a bit from ten years ago. That’s because I’ve got a pretty serious illness, and, uh ... well, I’ll tell you about that later. For now, I’ve got a really important favor to ask of you. You’re the only one I know living in Okinawa, so please watch to the end. I’ll explain everything....

  I had to admit I was a bit surprised when I saw the name of the sender on the parcel. I had stayed in touch with Matsumoto for only about two or three years after graduating from college. Back then, we spoke on the phone occasionally, and got together for drinks whenever I was in Tokyo. But as time passed, we saw less and less of each other. Our last meeting was during the summer about ten years ago. I was in Tokyo on business, so I gave him a call, and we got together in a coffee shop near Shinjuku Station. But after about half an hour, Matsumoto seemed to be in a hurry and said he had another appointment. As I watched him leaving the shop, I couldn’t help thinking that I’d been a nuisance. After that, I never called him again. He never contacted me either, so I figured our relationship had simply run its course. I didn’t even feel disappointed.

  —To tell the truth, I feel kind of embarrassed talking into a camera like this. Guess I should’ve written instead, huh? But, you know, it’s a real strain for me anymore, staring at the computer. So, uh, I hope you don’t mind if I just make a video. Because even like this, I know I won’t finish in one go. Just let me divide it up into a few days, okay? Anyway, thanks for your understanding....

  Matsumoto nodded with a weak smile, and then the video cut off. A second later, he reappeared on screen in the same clothes. Obviously, he’d resumed after a short break. Behind the sofa on which he was sitting was a bookcase filled with books and CDs. Though I had no way to know for sure, I assumed he was at home. Matsumoto had loved to read when we were in college. I was curious about what he’d been reading lately, so I hit the pause button and tried to read the titles. But they were too blurry.

  I was born and raised in Okinawa. After graduating from high school, I entered a private university in Tokyo. The change of environment was so overwhelming that I wondered if I’d survive the four years required to graduate. The first train ride of my life was when I went to Tokyo for the entrance exam, and other than the Yamanote Line, I struggled to figure out the trains on my own. I was a country bumpkin, and my keen awareness of that fact made me even more withdrawn. So when Matsumoto, a student in my department, spoke to me, I considered it a favor.

  Yes, a favor. Matsumoto made such a big difference in my life, that even now I see it that way. At the time, world music was all the rage. You could hear Shōkichi Kina, Rinken Band, and other Okinawan bands, even on the Japanese mainland. Matsumoto was really into Okinawan music, and that’s why he spoke to me. I answered all his questions about the music, and other questions about the military bases and life in Okinawa. Before long, we were sharing meals and exploring Tokyo together. Gradually, we became friends. Matsumoto was born and raised in Tokyo, so he was a great guide for me. For his part, he seemed to enjoy my surprised reactions to whatever he showed me.

  At Matsumoto’s invitation, I joined the literary arts circle. Matsumoto had watched a considerable number of movies and plays, and the breadth of his reading was incredible. So when I submitted my first short story for the group to critique, I couldn’t help feeling embarrassed. Matsumoto had written a quasi-autobiographical novel describing a relationship with an older woman, a work that struck me as being rather sophisticated.

  My submission was a forty-page piece about a young island girl raped by American soldiers after the Battle of Okinawa, based on a story I’d heard from my grandmother. The mainland Japanese seemed confused about how to evaluate my work, and few of them expressed an opinion. But Matsumoto complimented me for writing a story that none of them could’ve produced.

  Now that I’m older, I’d be embarrassed to read the stories we wrote back then. But when I was young, receiving unexpected praise gave me the strength to continue writing. If I hadn’t been praised during that first critique, and instead had been criticized about contradictions in the details as others had been, I might never have written another story. Matsumoto referred to that shared past in the video:

  —You might be surprised to know, I’ve read every story you’ve written. To tell the truth, they’re not my cup of tea. But, uh, I still enjoyed reading them. Guess there really are stories that can only be written by an Okinawan. Only someone like you, who was born there, can really capture the, uh, atmosphere, I guess you’d call it, and the language. Reminds me of that first critique after you joined the literary arts circle. You remember? Back then, I gotta tell you, I secretly resented you for having a world of your own. You know, something that only you could write about. Sure, my story might’ve looked impressive. But, really, it was just a rehash of the same old stuff. But yours! The writing might’ve been a little stilted, but your stories were unique. Nobody else could’ve written them. But enough about that. Once I start talking about the past, I can go on forever.... So anyway, you noticed the contents of the envelope, didn’t you? I mean the one enclosed with this video. If you haven’t, take a look now....

  After a long pause, Matsumoto continued:

  —So about that pendant. It was made from the head of a harpoon. Would you call it an arrowhead? Hmm. I guess not. I mean, it’s not from an arrow. But, uh, there’s no such word as harpoonhead, is there? Well, whatever it’s called, it couldn’t have rusted in the mail, so I’m sure it’s still black, and shiny, and smooth, just like when I sent it. It’s pretty old, I guess. Made into a pendant about sixty years ago, apparently. An American guy had it. But originally, it was from Okinawa, like you. It was part of a harpoon used by a guy living on an island there. Actually, my favor has to do with this pendant. And that’s why I’m sending you this video. Sorry for beating around the bush and all.... First, let me tell you about the guy with the pendant. After I graduated from college, I started working for a publishing company, as you know. But about ten years ago, which would’ve been about, uh, six months after I saw you last, I quit. Even before I was out of college, I knew I didn’t have much talent for writing fiction. But I figured that by supporting writers as an editor, I could help get some good stuff published. Oh, I guess now I’m just making excuses. And I’m tired of that. Besides, my motive for joining the company hardly matters now. The truth is, I just couldn’t stand it any more. All the boring manuscripts, all the boring writers, all the boring work. Yeah, some of my colleagues tried to get me to reconsider. Said that pretty soon I’d be able to pursue the projects I wanted. But I didn’t want to hear it. Well, sorry for all the, uh, all the complaining....