The voice calling to make up could be heard Chapter1

 
Chapter 1
 
   The rain that had been falling since morning showed no signs of stopping even as night fell. It was a cold rain. The newspaper reported that the coldest wave in decades had struck. However, behind this, there was a warm spring. The calendar would change in three days. It was March, when everything would sprout at once. Nishikawa Nobuyuki's entire body gradually appeared on this earth, but what didn't change at all was me.
   Descending to the subway platform, when I ascended the stairs and emerged above ground, the cold rain had turned into sleet. The hand holding the umbrella quickly became painful. Holding the umbrella and changing hands, I headed towards the hall, warming my cold hands. My steps were heavy. What does it mean to sincerely congratulate someone on their success and glory? In a desolate mood, I could only feel something akin to envy.
Entering a room in the commemorative hall on the university campus, the celebration of the publication of Nishikawa's collection of papers had already begun.
   I thought it was just a small gathering of poor scholars, but nearly a hundred people had gathered in that room. An old professor held the microphone, blessing Nishikawa, but Nishikawa seemed to be riding on clouds of happiness, looking up and then down. Next to him stood Hanako. Despite being just a fledgling lecturer, I had a base imagination that this grand celebration was thanks to her. He had married the former president's daughter.
   I was watching a solitary woman. She wore a navy sweater with a white collar, and she exuded an elegant charm like a female student, but her beauty captivated people's eyes like a deep red rose or a white lily. Wondering why such a woman was in a place like this and what she could be doing, I sipped my drink alone.
"Hey, you came," Nishikawa said as he approached me.
"Seems boring, want me to introduce someone?" he suggested.
"No, it's fine. Didn't anyone from the Silk Road Club invite them?" I replied.
"Those guys probably think it's like giving pearls to swine."
"Well, it might turn out that way. Oh, I forgot to mention something important. Congratulations on your debut," he said.
"No, thank you," I replied.
   He laughed as if he had lost his eyesight. "I'd like to say it's a fantastic book, but I haven't read it yet."
"I'm looking forward to your thoughts," I said.
"Don't push it. I can't read such a difficult book anymore."
"At least read the social insurance essay in there. I wrote something that no one has said yet."
   Laughter erupted from the circle formed by young men and women. In the midst of the commotion, that beautiful woman took off one of her shoes. They seemed to be playing some kind of game.
"She's a pretty girl."
"Does she catch your eye?"
"She sure does."
"She's still a student, but give it another two or three years, and she'll be giving lectures."
"I don't think they should make such a beauty a university professor."
"Are you saying a beautiful woman shouldn't become a teacher?"
"We shouldn't confine such a beauty to an ivory tower."
"There's a tall guy over there. Unfortunately, he's her fiancé."
"Is he also a university professor?"
"Yeah, he's an assistant professor in the literature department."
"Scholars are starting to look like an intolerable breed."
   Once again, laughter erupted as the woman took off her other shoe. It seemed she had lost again.
"It's a groundbreaking discovery that university professors engage in such play."
"It's fun, isn't it?"
"It's a bit childish."
"Maybe that's just pure innocence."
"Could be."
   Then, the woman walked towards us. Standing in front of us, she clinked the ice in her glass and said,
"The star of tonight shouldn't be hiding in this corner."
"No way, just chatting away here. Oh, I see. You were talking behind my back, weren't you?" she continued.
"Ask him," Nishikawa said.
"I won't say a word," I replied.
"Is that so?" she said, peering into my eyes with an ease as if we were old friends, making me feel flustered.
"I'm Hiroko Tajima. A bit of a troublemaker," she introduced herself.
"A troublemaker?"
"Yeah, I guess so. But well, I'm a good woman."
"Good with 'maa' attached, huh?"
"Well, something like that."
"Which means you're not that great of a woman," she said to me. When Nishikawa introduced me, she said,
"Oh, good. Teachers everywhere you look. Don't you think there are enough teachers already?"
"That's perfect. Keep him company. He's bored," Nishikawa suggested.
   As Nishikawa walked away, we fell into silence. I was tense, and she was looking into the distance. The man who was said to be her fiancé directed a piercing gaze towards us. Hiroko glanced briefly at the man, and their eyes met. It was a moment, but to me, it seemed like an intense spark flew between them. The depth of love and consequently the depth of hatred. Bound by a bond that outsiders could not penetrate, the two were connected. Thinking that this woman was an unreachable stranger for me, the tension faded away.
"When will I get my shoes back?" I asked.
"Will I get them back?" she replied.
"If you don't, I can carry you on my back on the way home."
"Oh, that would be nice. Let's hope it comes to that."
"But intellectuals of the highest order are surprisingly childish."
"You mean they're empty inside."
"Are they pure?"
"They're anything but pure."
"So, they're empty after all?"
"If that were the answer, you'd surely get a perfect score."
"Really?"
"That's why I think you can only write a paper with glue and scissors."
"You're a sharp sarcastic one."
"True scholars are probably few and far between," she said.
"Does that mean there's not a single real scholar among them?" I asked.
   At that moment, a young man with Hiroko's shoes arrived and took her away. I cast furtive glances of interest at the man who was said to be her fiancé. Despite conversations forming everywhere, he didn't join any of the groups. Standing alone, sipping his drink amidst the lively conversations, he had an aloof and strangely mysterious aura.
   The man's eyes occasionally turned towards the exuberant Hiroko. To me, his gaze seemed to carry a hint of sadness.
   People began to leave one by one. I approached Nishikawa, who was standing near the exit, to say goodbye, but he insisted I join the after-party. In the end, I found myself staying until the lights in the hall were extinguished.
Exiting onto the main street and flagging down a taxi, I found myself sharing the front seat with Muramatsu, who had become a teacher at a junior college in Shizuoka, and in the back were the Nishikawa couple and a female friend of Hanako.
"Publishing parties are extravagant for poor scholars, don't you think?" I blurted out under the influence of alcohol. Muramatsu replied,
"No, we need to set off fireworks in this world."
"Is that so?"
"Of course, that's not the only reason. Nishikawa is a man who will eventually become the president."
"Give me a break."
   Nishikawa, swirling his pipe, inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet scent of success, then exhaled. Wanting to tease him, I said, "Professor Nishikawa, you may be grinning, but there's something you should be turning pale about. You made an irreparable mistake with that book."
"What kind of mistake?" he asked.
"Why didn't you engrave 'To my beloved wife' on the front page of that book?"
"That's something for the folks over there to do."
"That's not true."
"Professor Terauchi said something interesting," Muramatsu interjected. "He mentioned that dedicating a book to one's wife from over there serves as a shield to protect oneself from attacks. Even if adversaries plan to criticize you mercilessly, dedicating it to your beloved wife makes their attacks less sharp."
"I see," I said, and we found ourselves quite impressed with this eccentric theory.
   When we got out of the car, the rain had already stopped, but the biting north wind felt like needles on our skin. Walking through the gaps between buildings, we entered a dirty structure and descended underground. When we pushed the door of a bar named "Kudan Kyō," a burst of applause and cheers erupted. People from the party had taken over the establishment, and it seemed they had rented out the entire place. As Nishikawa and the others took their seats at the central table, champagne corks popped.
   I sat at the end of the counter, sipping whiskey and water, observing the commotion of the group. In the midst of the excitement, there was that woman. She seemed to be intoxicated, inciting young scholars and budding intellectuals. Dancing began on the small dance floor, and she joined in. Her supple body moving to the music was incredibly sexy. She appeared to be not the daughter of Sophia, but rather the offspring of Eros.
   I couldn't ignore the quiet man sitting at a corner table. In the dim light, his solitary figure had a stronger outline, and his intellectual gaze was fixed on the dancing Hiroko.
   Engaged in banter with the bartender, Hiroko sat in the chair next to me.
"Hey, bartender, some water, please."
"Aren't you going to dance anymore?" I asked.
"I have a policy of not doing silly things," she said.
"Is it really silly?" I asked.
"It's definitely silly, I'm sure of it."
"That's quite unfortunate."
"Do you truly think so?"
   She asked, peering into my eyes, and I found myself flustered again.
"But wouldn't doing silly things make you even more unhappy?"
"What do you mean?"
"Are you speaking nonsense? Am I not behaving properly?"
"No, you're behaving fine."
"Hey, bartender, another glass of water, please."
   The bartender teased, saying, "You look more like you want a cocktail than water."
"Oh, does it seem that way?"
"It does. How about a Pink Lady?"
"Exactly."
"Let's make this one."
"So, you want to get me drunk. Fine. I'll let myself get drunk."
"Why do you want to get drunk so badly?" I asked.
"Don't you have times when you want to get drunk too?" she asked.
"Well, there are times, but..."
"In what situations do you think of getting drunk?"
"When things are turbulent or chaotic."
"Exactly. I believe alcohol has the power to calm a rough sea."
"There might be a theory that getting even more drunk is the correct solution."
"That might actually be the case."
"Probably."
"So, I want to get drunk."
"Why do you want to get drunk so badly?"
"Why do you even ask why I want to get drunk?"
"I'm just quite intrigued. Since the party, you seemed like you were trying to get drunk."
"You're misunderstanding."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. I'm just an ordinary woman with nothing special."
"It doesn't seem that way."
"You're mistaken. There's nothing about me that would pique your interest."
   She spoke as if brushing away my outreached hand, suggesting that she was merely a passing acquaintance. My heart was slightly wounded, and I decided not to approach her any further. Suddenly, she laid her hand over mine on the counter and said,
"Don't you want to escape from here?"
   As I tried to discern the meaning and looked into her eyes as she did, a voice behind us suggested going home. It was the man who had been standing there.
"Come on, let's go. I'll take you home," the man said again. Though his voice was low, it resonated within me.
"Oh, that won't do. This person is going to take me home," she said.
   Her hand remained intertwined with mine. The bartender, unable to　
endure the unusual tension, averted his gaze and lit a cigarette. Eventually, the man opened the door and left. The woman's hand released mine. Why was she doing such a thing?
   Suddenly feeling irritated, I asked,
"Why are you putting on such a clumsy act?"
"That wasn't my intention."
"It doesn't seem to be going well."
   She didn't respond, but I continued to ask,
"Is that man your fiancé?"
"You easily step into other people's business, don't you?"
"Entering with my shoes on is my profession."
"Don't you think there are things you can't understand, no matter how deeply you delve into them?"
   Again, she spoke as if brushing me off. Her speech, once broken, didn't falter anymore. She remained composed, as if not a drop of alcohol had entered her, retreating into silence. Then she said,
"Let's have another drink somewhere. Won't you take me somewhere?"
   It took a while to catch a taxi. When I told the driver to go to Shibuya, he clicked his tongue with displeasure.
   I mentioned that the master of the bar was called Ibukuro, I said. There are indeed some strange names in the world. He hated his own name so much that when called from a distance, like "Oy, Ibukuro," people around would burst into laughter. So, when he was twenty and fell in love with a girl, he quickly became her adopted child and got rid of the name Ibukuro. However, he divorced that woman three years ago and returned to the name Ibukuro. Surprisingly, this time around, he found the name quite good. Now, he says it's a really good name.
   While I was talking about such things, she, sinking into the seat, seemed to be either listening or not, scrunching her nose. As Shibuya approached, she put her hand on my arm and somewhat threw herself, saying,
"Don't you want to go see the sea? The winter sea."
   What a sentimentalist. What a girlish taste. I had no intention of going that far, so I tried to refuse. At that moment, the light from inside a car stopped at a signal shone through, and the profile of the woman became clear. She was crying. A sharp, pain-like emotion ran through me, and I told the driver to go to Yokohama as if picking up the card she had thrown.
"Is it tough for you?"
"Don't worry about it. It's just strange."
"Anyone can feel a bit strange sometimes."
"People who cry when they drink, you know?"
"Yeah."
"That's kind of nice, isn't it? It would be great to cry like that."
"It might clear your mind."
"I'm usually not a crying woman. But tonight, it's very strange."
   I took the woman's hand, and she squeezed mine in return. Her hand seemed to be clinging to something. The taxi crossed the Tama River and raced down the dark highway. The melancholic taillights of the car in front of us seemed to drag into the darkness.
"That guy is a nasty one. Always watching, and tonight, he'll surely tell me to sit in front of him."
"I see."
"Even if I say no, it doesn't matter."
"He sounds like a real jerk."
"He is. But because he's scary, I'll probably end up sitting in front of him. Then he says this. Flat, empty, and banal. Don't you think it's rude?" Finally understanding, I said,
"If you listen to what he says, you won't move forward." "That's right."
"There's no choice but to knock him down."
"That's a good idea. Probably the only one."
"Go back to the cold room, sit in front of that typewriter that seems like a symbol of loneliness, and knock him down. Maybe that's the only way your future will come."
"That's quite a good sermon."
"I think so too."
"You're quite the preacher, aren't you?"
"I've never followed my own sermons, so maybe that's why I became a preacher."
"Then I can be a preacher too. Nothing has ever gone well for me. But still, there are times when you return to that point, right? Doesn't that happen to you?"
   She asked with a slightly earnest tone.
"I'm vague. I'm just living vaguely."
"But sometimes, when the bell rings, you have to fight, don't you think?"
"Is it about whether to knock down or be knocked down?"
"Yes."
"Unfortunately, I've never lived so seriously. I've never stepped into that ring even once."
"Maybe it's because men are clever. They don't have to exaggerate everything because they go up in the ring every day. I'm stupid, so everything I do becomes exaggerated."
"Why do you exaggerate everything? It's just a thesis, isn't it?"
"That's right. It's just a thesis."
"Weren't theses things you put together with glue and scissors?"
"That could be a good method too. But it seems like it's not just that."
"Are you aiming to be a real scholar?"
"I'm trying to become a witch."
"What do you mean?"
"The witch is turning me into a witch."
"I really don't get it."
"But I can't become a witch."
"You're a mysterious talker."
"It's okay not to understand. I said it in a way that you wouldn't understand."
   The taxi passed through Sakuragicho and emerged onto the coastal road. Black, bare street trees enveloped the depths of the night. We stopped the car there.
   The streetlights standing throughout the cool and sunken park cast cold light around. Despite the chilly wind blowing in from the sea, there was no scent of the ocean. A large, aging white ship, now transformed into a seafront hotel, was adorned with small lights all over its body. The lights of the anchored ships at sea were thrown onto the water, flickering with the waves. The black waves weakly lapped against the quay. From somewhere, the sound of a ship starting its engines could be heard. Everything lacked vitality. The sea, the park, Hiroko, myself.
   Hiroko, who was walking alongside me, came to a stop. I waited for her to start walking again, with a cigarette in my mouth. However, she, who was gazing at the sea, didn't move for a while. With her hands in her coat pockets, she stood silently. She had been crying.
"What's wrong?"
   I approached her from behind and wrapped my arms around her. She was trembling, not from the cold but as if something deep within her was shaking. When my lips touched her cool ear, she relaxed and leaned into me.
"This is strange."
"Yeah."
"It feels like it's all falling apart."
"Why do you think it's falling apart?"
"It's crumbling gradually."
   It seemed as if she murmured that towards the sea. Her sadness wasn't the sentimental kind that a lonely night might evoke; rather, it felt like she was trembling with a deeper and more irredeemable sorrow.
"Hey, have you ever thought you were hopeless?"
"I've never pushed myself to that point."
"It's strange. Why can everyone live so confidently?"
"It just seems that way."
"Don't you ever think it's all hopeless?"
"Even so, I'll keep walking alone."
"Don't you think there are people who have stopped walking alone?" "Why do you become so pessimistic?"
"Is it impossible to be optimistic? Mr. Preacher."
   With that, she made a slightly contemptuous smile. Strength returned to her body, and she tried to pull away from me, but I didn't let go.
"It's okay now. I've got myself together. There's something wrong with my tear ducts."
"Feels like there's something wrong with your heart too."
"That's true. But I'm fine now. A bit of someone's optimistic blood has flowed into me."
"That's good."
"Do you think I'm a strange woman?"
"You're definitely a strange woman."
"Don't you think someone being kind to a strange woman is a strange man?"
"That person is undoubtedly a strange man."
   I hesitantly brushed my lips against her cheek.
"Your lips are very cold."
"Are your lips warm?"
"Do you want to kiss?"
"You don't want to?"
"I don't mind."
   Her lips were cold, and even after a long kiss, they didn't warm up. She closed her eyes, not in an attempt to enjoy it, but with an expression that seemed to endure some kind of pain.
"I stopped."
"Because it seemed like you were forcing yourself."
"Yeah, I'm really forcing myself."
"Why do you force yourself so much?"
"I think that by pushing myself, things might work out."
"But it might become even tougher."
"That might be the right answer. But by forcing myself, I feel like I'm supporting myself."
"Maybe that's the right answer."
   She smiled a little. It seemed like a forced smile. She was a woman who forced herself to get drunk, forced herself to kiss, and forced herself to laugh.
"You're someone who talks about impossibility."
"Yeah, that's right. I'm an impossible woman. Totally impossible."
   Afterward, we strolled along, talking about witches. She was researching the witch trials that swept through Western Europe in the 17th century.
"Your witches seem quite accurate. Witches walking on cobblestone streets."
"That's thanks to reading a good book."
"What kind of book?"
"The Crucible."
"Reading such a play, you're quite the avid reader."
"I understood very well why witches were born, why such things had to be created."
"You're probably a good sermonizer because you're probably a good reader."
"You're a master of sarcasm."
"Oh, I didn't say it sarcastically."
"No, it's fine. Scholars might create a thesis with glue and scissors, but we quickly cut out and tape together only the parts that become something from the overflowing information."
"That's how magazines are created, huh?"
"Yeah, that's right. That's how it goes."
"So, in that case, you're also a tape seller, right?"
"Yeah, that's how it is."
"Does that mean your heart is also taped together with scotch tape?"
   She was already lively. It wasn't a dark, sunk voice. She asked about me with a soft smile. Until then, I was undoubtedly just a trivial partner for a distracting kiss. We walked with our fingers entwined. Sweet waves surged within me. Those waves seemed to come from her. And my waves also seemed to wash over her. I thought it would be wonderful to walk with this woman. However, I knew it was an illusion. She was already an engaged woman. I was someone who couldn't get any closer.
   The taxi tore through the night darkness and climbed to a high place. It was only a short distance from the harbor. I started giving directions to the driver. When he said it was fine, the car came to a sudden stop. I got out, and she got out too.
"Good night," I said.
"Goodbye," she said.