A Japanese Schoolgirl

by Kajihara, Yoko

  She was sitting on her heels in the dead center of a dimly lit tatami-floored room, hanging down her head. She appeared as if she was in despair, but I was not so sure. The woman usually faded off as discreetly as a fog would disperse.

  Today the fog has become as real as the ghost of Yukio and, now, it envelops the Rainbow Bridge while it crawls up onto the streets of Bay area, leisurely expanding, as I watch those real-time images streaming through the Net. The fog entwines itself around the trunks of high rises and buries the swarms of people under its moist abdomen with its sludgy smell. Then the fog advances further toward inland. This is why our schoolyard also lies deep in fog at this very moment.

  From a window of a classroom on the third floor I am looking down the schoolyard to observe how secretly the fog moves. Standing next to me, Maya presses her forehead against the window. She says that she likes to watch the fog because it is capable of suffocating the light and colors and making everything fade into monochrome silhouette. You can see her breath fogging the window. Reiko says, with a shrug, that she wonders when it will be lifted off. Then she taps Maya on the shoulder to signal her to go to the school cafeteria. They don’t even ask me to join them so that I get out of the classroom alone and run down stairs. As I weave my way through crowds of student, a girl with a pink Mobile in her hand asks me if I have already turned in an assignment for the ethics class. She seems to know me but is unfamiliar to me. Perhaps she is a transfer student. I tell her not to worry even if she is already late for its deadline.

  “Mr. Buddha is fine,” I say. “He is very understanding.”

  “Mister Buddha?”

  She bends her head slightly to one side, knitting her brows.

  “Mr. Buddha the ethics teacher. He has a tendency to give some gentlemanly favor for female students, especially kawaii girls.”

  “Oh boy, I become nervous.” She frowns at me.

  “No, you’ll be welcomed for sure.”

  “It sounds rather worrisome.”

  “I know that feeling too.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” And she jiggles the pink Mobile.

  “He’s fine. Seriously fine. He teaches ethics you know.”

  “It certainly gives us a relief, doesn’t it?”

  “Besides, he’s been devoting himself only to a single girl in my class.”

  “No kidding. Who’s that girl?”

  “You’ll see. His eyes will tell.”

  “It sounds a bit like a teaser for an upcoming horror movie, doesn’t it?”

  I just shrug with a chuckle. She thanks me with an unexpectedly open smile and introduces herself. It makes me nervous. I know I am not good at dealing with any situation from where responsibility might develop.

  *

  The lunch break has come, but I am still in the dense fog. Out in the schoolyard you can see two boards of targets for Japanese archery. They are facing this way with a mound right behind. Cutting across the schoolyard, I stare at those concentric circles. They are both fading into blurred silhouettes in the fog, like two gigantic eyes of a monster lurking in a nightmare. The top bench of the stand also vanishes. Then soccer goals follow.

  As I look around, sniffing like a dog at the swampy smell of the fog, three human silhouettes emerge out of the fog as if they were phantoms and pass by without a word. They are all boys, senior, and seem to be looking for someone.

  Stillness has returned again. Then something starts to sting me on the nape of the neck. I stop to look back at the south wing of the school building. Maya and Reiko might have been observing me from the window of the school cafeteria. What has irritated me the most back in the classroom is the fact that they already knew that the Yukio’s family had cut off a relationship with me. Reiko said she felt pity me for my being rejected so completely by the professor emeritus. She said it with an exquisitely icy smile on her lips.

  And what Maya was doing at that moment was giggling at my blank look.

  Reiko came up to me to whisper in my ear.

  ‘We are bunnies, you see? We have long ears. And remember that I can prick you anytime I want.’

  Having shaken my head, I start for a soccer goal. Although the goal can hardly be seen, there should be a brass chair in a grove of cherry tree near the goal. Yukio used to sit there with several paperbacks by his side until the sky darkens with the sinking sun.

  Gradually the brass chair emerges out of the dense fog.

  Its frame is sweating in fog and cold to the touch. There is a greenish chewing gum stuck on the back of chair. I wipe the seat with my hand. It is unearthly quiet and I can smell of trees.

  I start wheezing as I imagine Maya and Reiko chuckling at each other in the school cafeteria. Takeshi might be seated at the same table with them, laughing at me.

  All of a sudden I have cold drops come out on the skin of my back. Quickly looking around, I notice a certain presence approaching from above. It is a creepy presence which seems to swing from branch to branch. The leaves of cherry trees are rustling to the movement of the presence. I follow the alarming sound with my eyes through the fog and then watch a single branch begin to bend under the weight of something hanging down from the tip of it. That something seems like the upper portion of Yukio. I am frozen like a catatonic. He descends on my shoulder quite skillfully from the branch, making good use of his tentacles, no, his slimy intestines.

  Good afternoon, my girl. I think I can be an acrobat in a Chinese dance company.

  It’s odd.

  What’s odd?

  While you’re alive, you have the slightest chance of becoming a gymnast. Now you can move like a gibbon.

  Don’t cast a chill over my glamorous entrance.

  I’m wondering if you fish for my compliment.

  I don’t need to, because I’ve already received dozens of fascinating compliments from myself.

  You’ve become a clown after you had lost the lower half of your body.

  Excuse me, but I’m not a product of fancy special effect. I know I’m disfigured. I know I’m monstrous. Still I am the reality of your life, not of the clown you expected me to be. I repeat, I Am the Reality of Your Life. Pay me some respect, will you?

  You are nothing but just a ghost.

  Have you ever heard of the word ‘empathy’? I’m a physically handicapped person for Buddha’s sake.

  And also the grandson of that mean and nasty professor.

  He is austere. That’s all.

  It’s a miracle that I can hear from you such a harmless assessment, isn’t it?

  Luna, you should’ve said something to refute him.

  How could I? He was so one-sided from the beginning I had no time to say anything against his preachment.

  I know my grandfather.

  No, you don’t.

  As far as that matter is concerned, my grandfather is indeed a disappointment to me. It seems that even his intellect can’t help deteriorating if his brain is flooded with Senior Male Sexual Hormones.

  What’s the matter with you?

  I’m talking about Reiko.

  Reiko?

  She must be the one who put all those ideas into his head.

  No, I don’t think so.

  She can play at once innocent and coquettish very well, especially with that inviting glance. My grandfather would have been an easy prey for Reiko.

  It also means that I was set up, doesn’t it?

  No, I don’t think it was a frame-up. She might have been desperate herself.

  No, she never looked desperate.

  Listen, Luna. You’re unable to see what you don’t want to see. You deliberately miss the thing you’re afraid to see.

  I’ve already heard it before. Tell me something new. Everything seems to go against me.

  Don’t worry. The wind shifts anytime. That’s life.

  Now you talk like your grandfather, but what about Cahier de Secret?

  The wind shifts. This is all I can say to you right now.

  Then Yuk
io shrugs with a sardonic smile and grabs a thick branch right above with his intestines and then pulls himself up and disappears into the grove of cherry tree like, this time, a Japanese macaque monkey.

  I repeatedly shout his name in whisper, but there is no answer.

  *

  This is Yukio’s e-mail written on Japanese ghost known as Yurei: Yurei, which is usually a woman, makes no noise. Yurei moves silently. No footsteps can be heard, simply because she has no legs. She doesn’t break furniture or throw tableware. Instead of walking through a dark corridor, Yurei floats in the air as faintly as fragrance of flowers. She has long black hair that should be straight. No Afro is allowed.

  The straight long black hair is the trademark of Yurei.

  In essence, Japanese ghosts bear some resemblance to weeping willows. They are droopy, shadowy, and subtle but reserved with a high-voltage vengeance repressed deep inside their unearthly hearts. Not grudging but blaming is the main source for their supernatural power. The glancing-up look of blaming is the signature of Yurei the Japanese ghost.

  She usually emphasizes the look by covering half of her face with that straight long black hair. And it is supposed to appeal to the conscience and repentance of those who have brought the tragic death to her in pre-ghost state. But it also implies that ghosts can hardly exercise their power over those who feel no remorse for what they have done in the past. This is why Japanese ghosts usually fail to scare politicians into confessing their crime both in old tales and contemporary Japanese films.

  Japanese ghosts appear to be psychologically oriented, never politically driven. But if you have time to see Japanese old films, some black and white ones, you would know that Yurei used to inhabit in a forbidden room inside the Castle to teach a shogun a moral lesson.

  It seems that, for the weak, becoming the dead is the only way to have their words in the ear of the powerful.

  Especially if you have no prospects of making your appearance on the television.

  Say sayonara with a sneer.

  *

  What about Yukio himself then?

  He certainly doesn’t have legs, but he cannot be taken into a member of traditional Japanese ghost club. First of all, he is a boy. Secondly, he never seems to give up being a pain in the chrysanthemum.

  I know how yurei is like very well. I am able to see one all the time because there exists a real Japanese yurei in the living room of my house. The ghost sits on a sofa and weeps covering her face with her long black hair whenever I fail to obtain good grade. She gives me the very look of blaming.

  She shouts in whispers: ‘Good grade is the best thing given to your life. You have to make all possible efforts to get good grade if you still have an earnest concern for the future of your family. Please do your best if you still love me.’

  And, then, the ghost goes out for shopping.

  Virgin

  Yukio was right. The wind shifts. And it shifts very quickly to an unexpected direction. The day before yesterday I received a parcel which was about the size of a telephone book. It was a brown-colored carton box wrapped in a brown-colored paper. In the box there was a thick blue file folder with eighty punched transparent pockets bound together between its hard plastic covers. And you could see a sheet of paper being inserted in each pocket. The moment I started reading the first page, I was instantly fascinated by the content. The mode of Yukio’s expression was found everywhere in every pages. I could almost hear his voice from space between the lines.

  I kept shouting in my head, ‘This is it.’

  Although there was found no title anywhere in that plastic file folder, my intuition kept telling me that these printouts were what I had been looking for.

  This must be Cahier de Secret.

  The name of the sender was Taro Yamada. It was however too common a Japanese name even to consider it as the sender’s pseudonym. Besides, the name Taro Yamada in Japanese is used generally in the same way as John Doe in English. It suggests that the name itself would ever take me to nowhere.

  I searched the ordinary brown parcel for any fresh clue to the identity of the sender. But the address of the mystery sender seemed mystifying. For instance, the name of the city was Shinjuku even though the parcel was postmarked Yokohama which is twenty miles to the west of Shinjuku. And the address was printed in jet black with a bold typeface and the font looked familiar. It was the same as the one stored in my Notebook. But this fact didn’t lead me to anywhere, for I knew that there were at least fifty thousands of people who owned the same Notebook as mine. To me, the only noticeable thing about those printed letters was that they felt eerier than handwritten letters. It seemed as if the parcel had reached me from the spiritual realm. I wondered if there was some post office in the homeland of the dead. Even if there were actually some, however, Yukio should have sent it by express through a home delivery service. It would have been more reliable. And if he were actually the sender, I would very much like him to call me in advance.

  You made a crucial mistake, Yukio.

  Don’t leave life without the Mobile.

  *

  Because of the parcel I can be now alone with Reiko.

  A Saturday evening sky begins to tint glassy walls of surrounding buildings with a crimson afterglow. Reiko puts a bending straw between her lips and glances upward at me across a table by a thick window of a cozy diner located on the middle of a sloping backstreet of Shibuya. There is an ice-cream bar across the floor.

  I steal a glance at Reiko, whispering to myself, ‘I’m going to squeeze your secret out of your heart.’

  According to Takeshi, she is the very picture of a young actress who often plays in a Japanese television miniseries on every Friday night, but I think Reiko bears little resemblance to the actress. Takeshi places too much emphasis on the shape of girl’s body rather than her face.

  To me Reiko seems to be prettier than the actress.

  The background music has turned from Jazz fusion to electronic bossa now.

  “So, Luna, you’ve been following me all day long.”

  “And I took a great number of interesting snapshots of you, Reiko, with my Mobile.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Thank you.” I smile back at her triumphantly.

  “It’s strange. I’ve never been aware of your presence even once. You have to show me the secret.”

  “It’s because I disguised myself with this baseball cap, this dark anorak, and this large-sized backpack. I was sort of a boy on the street.”

  “I’ve never realized till now that you’re such a cross-dresser.”

  “Thank you. This is only a hobby.”

  Then I have a scoopful of chocolate ice cream.

  Several windows of the building opposite are glaring in perfect red by the reflected light of the setting sun.

  There are only six customers in this diner. Most of them are seated by the wall on which a large abstract painting is being hung.

  Reiko asks, “Can I have that cherry on your sundae? I wonder if you took my photos well. I hate to be photographed poorly.”

  “Do you seriously want to see some of them?”

  “I’m delighted.”

  Reiko bites her lower lip with a curious look as I show her my mobile.

  A snapshot of Reiko who is waiting for the next train to arrive on the platform of Shinjuku railroad station. Dressed in a long sweater dress with a pair of leather boots on, she doesn’t at all look like a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl.

  A snapshot of Reiko who is waiting for the traffic lights to change at the main crossing in Shibuya. Her long black hair is waving before a gust of wind.

  A snapshot of Reiko who has just come out of a French restaurant on a man’s arm, smiling bashfully. The man is a Caucasian, wearing casual jacket and trousers, who is her stepfather Mr. Earnest Kaufman the investment banker.

  A snapshot of Reiko who is about to go in a cafe with her stepfather.

  A snapshot of Reiko who has just come out from
the same cafe. She is being held tightly in the left arm of her stepfather.

  A snapshot of Mr. Kaufman who presses his fist against his mouth in front of a mega-bookstore as if he were in trouble with Reiko.

  A snapshot of Reiko who has just turned her face away from her stepfather as if she is about to weep.

  A snapshot of Mr. Kaufman who appears to persuade Reiko, with American-like expansive gestures, to do something.

  A snapshot of Reiko who is trying to pick up a taxi. She looks irritated.

  A snapshot of Mr. Kaufman who is pulling Reiko by the wrist out of the rear seat of a taxi.

  A snapshot of the back view of the two in a crowded boulevard.

  A snapshot of the two who are about to slip away from the boulevard into a quiet backstreet of a hill.

  A snapshot of Reiko who is about to be swiftly taken away by her stepfather from the backstreet into an old seven-story hotel that has a dolphin-shaped neon sign on the roof against the sky in the late afternoon.

  “Then you’ve been waiting for us to come out from that hotel for how long?”

  “Three hours and forty-seven minutes.”

  “Ah, that’s why my daddy had to pay additional charges. Where was your hiding spot?”

  “A Japanese noodle restaurant diagonally across the street.”

  “I’m curious what you ordered.”

  “Single bamboo basket of buckwheat noodles and assorted seasonal pickles. I studied math and English for the next exam, drinking seven cups of green tea.”

  “I admire you for your perseverance, Miss. Pervert.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me? I’m not a pervert. I’m only having sex with the man I adore very much.”

  “Are you out of your mind, Reiko? He’s your father.”

  “Stepfather. And he’s by no means related to me by blood.”

  “So what? It can still be called incest. That’s what you got into, Reiko.”

  “Could you repeat it, please?”