Sensei cautioned, “You might want to look ahead,” while I cried out at the same time, “Up ahead! Up ahead!” A utility pole was close at hand.
“Oh?!” The owner spun back around and turned the steering wheel just in time to avoid the pole. Sensei and I both gave a deep sigh.
“No worries,” the owner said as he sped up. What on earth was I doing here in a stranger’s car? And this early in the morning!? I still had no idea what mushroom hunting entailed, and I felt as if I were still drinking. The car sped along faster, despite my confusion.
I MUST HAVE dozed off. When I opened my eyes, we were on a mountain road. I had been awake until we had gotten off the expressway onto a smaller highway that I didn’t know the name of. The three of us had chatted intermittently, about the fact that Sensei had taught Japanese, that I had been his student, that my grades in Japanese class had been unremarkable, that the bar owner’s name was Satoru, that there were lots of modashi mushrooms to be found in the mountains where we were heading. I might have liked to know more about these modashi mushrooms, or to share just how strict a teacher Sensei had been, but since Satoru kept turning all the way around whenever he spoke to us, Sensei and I made sure not to seem too interested in eliciting small talk.
The car slowly climbed the mountain road. The windows had been open, but Satoru closed his now. Sensei and I followed suit, rolling up the rear windows. The air had grown slightly chilly. I could hear the crystalline sound of birdsong from within the mountains. The road gradually narrowed.
We came to a fork in the road. One way was paved, the other way was gravel. Just as we pulled onto the gravel road, the car came to a stop. Satoru got out and walked further up the gravel road. Sensei and I stayed in the backseat as we watched Satoru.
“Where could he be going?” I pondered, and Sensei tilted his head. I opened the window and cool mountain air rushed in. The birds’voices were close. The sun was now high in the sky. It was past nine o’clock.
“Tsukiko, do you think we’ll get back?” Sensei said suddenly.
“What?”
“Somehow I have the feeling that we might not make it back home again.”
You’re not serious, I replied, and Sensei smiled. He fell silent after that, staring at the rearview mirror. You must be tired, I added, but he shook his head.
“Not at all. Not at all!”
“You know, Sensei, it’s not too late to turn back.”
“‘Turn back’? How do you mean?”
“Well . . . ”
“Let’s go along with this together. No matter where.”
“What?”
Was Sensei having a bit of fun? I stole a glance at his face but his expression was the same as always. Calm and reassured. He was sitting up straight, his briefcase lying next to him on the seat. While I puzzled over this, Satoru came down the hill with another person in tow.
The other man was a perfect double of Satoru. The two of them opened the trunk and hurriedly carried the packages up the hill. Just as I thought they were out of sight, they returned, both of them stopping beside the car to puff on cigarettes.
“G’morning!” Satoru’s double said as he got into the passenger seat.
“This is my cousin Toru,” Satoru introduced him. Toru looked just like him, in every way. His face, his expression, his build, even the air about him—they were exactly alike.
“So, Toru, I hear that you enjoy Sawanoi saké,” Sensei said. With his seatbelt fastened, Toru twisted himself around to face the back. “That’s right, I sure do!” he replied cheerfully.
“But saké from Tochigi is still better,” Satoru added, turning around at the same angle as Toru. The car had started up the mountain road. Just as Sensei and I each let out a cry, the front end of the car scraped up against the guardrail.
“Idiot,” Toru muttered nonchalantly. Satoru smiled as he turned the steering wheel. Sensei and I let out another sigh. I could hear muffled birdsong from the forest.
“SENSEI, ARE YOU going to hike in those clothes?”
We had driven for another thirty minutes or so after Toru joined us, then Satoru had stopped the car and turned off the engine. Satoru, Toru, and I were all wearing jeans and sneakers. We got out of the car, and the two of them started bending their knees and stretching their legs. I followed their lead. Only Sensei stood still, completely upright. He wore a tweed suit with leather shoes. His suit looked old but well-tailored.
“You’ll get dirty,” Toru continued.
“It does not matter if I get dirty,” Sensei replied, shifting his briefcase from his right hand to his left hand.
“Would you like to leave your briefcase?” Satoru asked.
“That won’t be necessary,” Sensei replied imperturbably.
Without further ado, we started to climb the wooded path. Satoru and Toru both wore similar rucksacks on their backs. Theirs were climbing daypacks, about one size larger than the one I was carrying. Toru led the way, and Satoru brought up the rear.
“The ascent is surprisingly tough going,” Satoru said from behind.
“Uh . . . Yes, it is,” I said, as Toru said from ahead in the exact same voice, “Easy, just take your time.”
Every so often I could hear a sound like ta-ra-ra-ra-ra, ta-ra-ra-ra-ra . Sensei kept a steady pace as he climbed along the path. He wasn’t particularly out of breath. I, on the other hand, was considerably winded. The ta-ra-ra-ra-ra, ta-ra-ra-ra-ra became more insistent.
“Is that a cuckoo?” Sensei asked.
Toru turned around to reply. “No, actually, that’s a woodpecker. Sensei, you must know a lot about birds to recognize a cuckoo’s call.”
He went on, “That’s the sound the woodpecker makes when he pecks at a tree trunk, looking for insects to eat.”
“He makes quite a racket,” Satoru said from behind, laughing.
The path grew steeper and steeper. It was about as narrow as an animal trail. Autumn grasses had grown thick on either side, and they brushed against our faces and hands as we walked along. At the foot of the mountain, the fall foliage had yet to change but up here most of the leaves were tinged red or yellow. The air was cool and pleasant, but I had broken into a sweat, due to the fact that I never exercised. Sensei, however, appeared quite relaxed, carrying his briefcase lightly in one hand.
“Sensei, do you do a lot of mountain climbing?”
“Tsukiko, this is not what one calls mountain climbing.”
“I see.”
“Look, there’s the sound of the woodpecker eating insects again.”
I chose not to look, instead keeping my head down as I continued to walk along. Toru called out (or was it Satoru?—I was looking down and couldn’t tell from which way the voice came), “Sensei, you’re doing well.”
Then Satoru called out (or was it Toru?) in encouragement, “Keep it up, Tsukiko, you’re much younger than Sensei.”
The path seemed like it would go on forever. The ta-ra-ra-ra-ra was now interspersed with calls of chi-chi-chi, and ryu-ryu-ryu-ryu-ryu, and gu-ru-ru-ru-ru.
“We’re almost there, aren’t we?” Toru said.
“I’m sure it’s right around here,” Satoru replied.Toru suddenly veered off the path. We traipsed into an area where there were no tracks of any sort. Just one step off the path, the air suddenly felt dense and thick.
“They’re around here, so keep your eyes on the ground,” Toru said as he turned around.
“Be careful not to trample them,” Satoru added from behind.
The ground was moist and damp. After walking a little bit, the undergrowth became sparse and instead there were clusters of trees. Here it was a gentle incline, and much easier to walk without the grasses catching at my steps.
“I’ve found something!” Sensei cried out. Toru and Satoru ambled their way closer to Sensei.
“Well, that’s unusual,” Toru said as he crouched down.
“Is it a Cordyceps sinensis?” Sensei asked.
“The caterpillar is still pr
etty big.”
“It must be some kind of larva.”
The three of them exchanged opinions. Under my breath, I muttered, “Cordyceps sinensis?”
Sensei took a stick and drew the Japanese name in four large characters on the ground: Tō CHŪ KA Sō. “Winter insect summer plant. Tsukiko, you weren’t listening very closely in science class, either, were you?” he scolded.
Nobody ever taught us that in class. I pouted.
Toru burst into laughter. “They don’t teach the really important things in school, do they now?” he said. Sensei stood erect as he listened to Toru’s guffaws.
Finally, he said quietly, “A person can learn all manner of things, no matter where he finds himself, provided his spirit is determined.”
“Your teacher, he’s hilarious, you know?” Toru said, having himself another good laugh. Sensei took a plastic bag out of his briefcase and quietly put the Cordyceps in it, tying off the top. He put it back into his briefcase.
“All right then, we’re going in further. We have to, if we want to find enough to fill our bellies with,” Satoru said, stepping between the trees. The rest of us fell out of line, everyone looking at our feet as we moved forward. Sensei’s tweed suit blended in among the trees, providing him with a sort of natural camouflage. Even when I thought he was directly in front of me, if I happened to look away, I would quickly lose sight of him. Wondering where he’d gone, I’d look around to find him standing right beside me.
“Sensei, there you are, right here,” I’d call out to him, and he’d respond in a strange voice, “I’m not going anywhere,” trailing off in a chuckle. Within the forest, Sensei seemed quite different from his usual self. He was like a woodland creature who had lived among the trees since ancient times.
“Sensei,” I called out to him again. I felt lonely.
“Tsukiko, didn’t I say that I’d stay right by your side?”
Despite what he had said, Sensei—being Sensei—would go on ahead, leaving me behind. Tsukiko, pull yourself together. You always have a bad attitude, he would say as he kept right on moving.
I heard the ta-ra-ra-ra-ra, much closer this time. Sensei went off into the trees. Idly, I stood and watched him go. What am I doing here, I wondered to myself. I caught a glimpse of Sensei’s tweed coat between the trees.
“Inky cap modashi!” Satoru shouted from further ahead. “A whole colony of them! Lots more than last year!” Satoru’s voice (or was it Toru’s?) was full of excitement as it echoed throughout the forest.
Mushroom Hunting, Part 2
I WAS SITTING on a large tree stump and looking up at the sky.
Sensei and Satoru and Toru had all ventured much further into the forest. The ta-ra-ra-ra-ra was now off in the distance and in its place I could hear a high-pitched ru-ru-ru-ru-ru.
The area where I sat was slick with dampness. It wasn’t just that the ground was moist—all around me, it felt like it was bursting—with the leaves on the trees, the undergrowth, the countless microorganisms under the ground, the flat bugs crawling over the surface, the winged insects flitting through the air, the birds perched on branches, even the breath of the larger animals that inhabited the deeper forest.
I could only see a small patch of sky, the part that was left open between the treetops of the forest around me. The branches seemed like a network that in some places almost obscured the sky. Once my eyes had adjusted to the faint light, I realized that the undergrowth was alive with all manner of things. Tiny orange mushrooms. Moss. Something that looked like coarse white veins on the underside of a leaf. What must be some kind of fungus. Dead beetles. Various kinds of ants. Centipedes. Moths on the backs of leaves.
It seemed strange to be surrounded by so many living things. When I was in Tokyo, I couldn’t help but feel like I was always alone, or occasionally in the company of Sensei. It seemed like the only living things in Tokyo were big like us. But of course, if I really paid attention, there were plenty of other living things surrounding me in the city as well. It was never just the two of us, Sensei and me. Even when we were at the bar, I tended to only take notice of Sensei. But Satoru was always there, along with the usual crowd of familiar faces. And I never really acknowledged that any of them were alive in any way. I never gave any thought to the fact that they were leading the same kind of complicated life as I was.
Toru came back to where I was sitting.
“Tsukiko, everything okay?” he asked as he showed me the handfuls of mushrooms he had collected.
“Totally fine. Really,” I replied.
“Well, I wish you would have come along with us,”Toru said.
“Tsukiko can be a tad bit sentimental.” The instant I realized this was Sensei’s voice, he suddenly and unexpectedly emerged from the shade of the trees just behind me. Whether it was because his suit acted as protective coloring or he was particularly surefooted in the forest, until that moment I had been completely unaware of his presence.
“You were sitting there all alone, lost in your thoughts, weren’t you?” Sensei went on. There were fallen leaves stuck here and there on his tweed jacket.
“Do you mean to say she’s a girlish romantic?” Toru asked as he roared with laughter.
“Girlish, indeed!” I replied, deadpan.
“Well, then, would the young Miss Tsukiko like to help me prepare the soup?” Toru said, reaching into Satoru’s rucksack and taking out an aluminum pot and a portable cooking stove.
“Could you fetch some water?” he asked, and I hurriedly stood up. He told me there was a stream just ahead, so I walked there to find water springing forth among large rocks. Catching some water in my palms, I brought it to my lips. The water was icy cold, yet smooth and mellow. I caught more of it with my palms, bringing it to my lips over and over again.
“HAVE A TASTE,” Satoru said to Sensei, who was sitting up straight, Japanese-style, his feet tucked under his legs on a newspaper that had been spread over the ground. Sensei sipped the mushroom soup.
Satoru and Toru had skillfully prepared the mushrooms they had collected. Toru had cleaned the mushrooms of any dirt or mud, and Satoru had torn the large ones into pieces, leaving the smaller ones as they were, before briefly sautéing them in a small frying pan they had also brought along. Then he put the sautéed mushrooms into the pot of already boiling water, stirred in some miso, and let it all simmer for a little while.
“I studied up a bit last night for our trip,” Sensei said, as he blew on the soup, cupping in both hands the alumite bowl that reminded me of old-fashioned cafeteria ware.
“You studied up? Isn’t that just like a teacher!” Toru responded, heartily slurping his soup.
“There are many more kinds of poisonous mushrooms than I realized,” Sensei said, snaring a piece of mushroom with his chopsticks and popping it in his mouth.
“Hmmm, well . . . ,” Satoru murmured. Having already drained his first bowl, he was just that moment ladling out a second serving.
“The really poisonous ones, you shouldn’t even think about putting them near your mouth.”
“Sensei, please stop! At least while we’re eating,” I pleaded, but he paid no attention to me. As usual.
“But the trouble is, it seems the kaki-shimeji mushroom looks exactly like the matsutake, and the tsukiyotake mushroom is indistinguishable from the shiitake, and so on.”
Sensei’s gravely serious tone caused Satoru and Toru to burst in laughter.
“Sensei, we’ve been collecting mushrooms for more than ten years now, and we’ve never once seen such strange mushrooms as that.”
I now returned my chopsticks, which had been suspended in the air, to my alumite soup bowl. Unsure of whether or not Satoru and Toru had taken notice of my hesitation, I cast a furtive upward glance in their direction, but neither of them seemed to be paying any attention to me.
Satoru and Toru were both mesmerized by Sensei, who had just uttered the statement, “Actually, the woman who used to be my wife once ate a Big Laug
hing Gym mushroom.”
“What do you mean, ‘the woman who used to be my wife’?”
“I mean my wife who ran off about fifteen years ago,” he said, his voice as serious as ever.
Huh? I gave out a little cry. I had assumed that Sensei’s wife had died. I expected Satoru and Toru to be just as surprised, but they both seemed unfazed. As he sipped the rest of his mushroom soup, Sensei told us the following story:My wife and I often went hiking. We usually hiked smaller mountains, places that were about an hour’s train ride away. Early Sunday mornings, we’d take along a lunch my wife had packed for us and board the train, still empty at that hour. My wife had a book she loved called Suburban Pleasure Hiking . On its cover, there was a photo of a woman climbing a mountain with a walking stick, wearing leather hiking boots, knickerbockers, and a hat with a feather tucked into it. My wife had re-created this exact outfit—down to the walking stick—and she would wear it on our hiking trips. This is just ordinary hiking, I would say to her, You don’t need to be so formal about it. But she would reply, impervious to me, It’s important to dress the part. She wouldn’t break character, even on a trail where people were walking around in flip-flops. She was a very hardheaded person.
This must have been when our son was in elementary school. The three of us were on one of our usual hiking trips. It was exactly the same time of year as now. It had been raining, and the mountain’s fall foliage was beautiful, although many of the brilliantly colored leaves had been scattered by the rain. I was wearing sneakers and had fallen down a couple of times when they got stuck in the mud. My wife had no trouble walking in her hiking boots. But whenever I fell, she refrained from making any sort of sarcastic remark. She may have been stubborn, but she did not go in for cattiness.
After walking for a while, we took a break and each had two honeyed lemon slices. I’m not particularly fond of sour sweets, but my wife insisted that honeyed lemon went together with mountain hiking, so I didn’t bother to argue. Even if I had, I doubt it would have bothered her, perhaps it would just have contributed to the subtle accumulation of anger—the way a succession of smaller waves accumulate into one big wave—that rippled throughout everyday life in unexpected places. That’s just the way married life is, I suppose.
The Briefcase Page 4