Manazuru. Hiromi Kawakami

      Copyright © 2010 by Hiromi Kawakami

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

      English translation © 2010 by Michael Emmerich

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product

      of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual

      persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover as follows:

      Kawakami, Hiromi, 1958–

      [Manazuru. English]

      Manazuru / by Hiromi Kawakami ; translated by Michael Emmerich.

      p. cm.

      ISBN 978-1-58243-627-2

      1. Abandoned wives—Fiction. 2. Paramours—Family relationships—Fiction. 3. Loss (Psychology)—Fiction. 4. Memory—Fiction. 5. Manazuru-machi (Japan)—Fiction. 6. Psychological fiction. I. Emmerich, Michael. II. Title.

      PL855.A859M3613 2010

      895.6'35—dc22

      2010017806

      Paperback ISBN: 978-1-64009-018-7

      Cover design by Natalia Mosquera

      Cover art © Natsumi Hayashi, “Today’s Levitation 03/22/2011”

      Book Design by Megan Jones Design

      Printed in the United States of America

      This book has been selected by the Japanese Literary Publishing Project (JLPP),

      an initiative of the Agency for Cultural Affairs of Japan.

      counterpoint

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      Berkeley, CA 94710

      www.counterpointpress.com

      Distributed by Publishers Group West

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      one

      I walked on, and something was following.

      Enough distance lay between us that I couldn’t tell if it was male or female. It made no difference, I ignored it, kept walking.

      I had set out before noon from the guest house on the inlet, headed for the tip of the cape. I stayed there last night, in that small building set amidst an isolated cluster of private houses, run by a man and woman who, judging from their ages, were mother and son.

      It was nearly nine when I arrived, two hours on a train from Tokyo, and by then the entrance to the inn was shut. The entrance was unremarkable: a low swinging iron gate like any other; two or three wiry, gnarled pines; nothing to indicate the lodge’s name but a weathered nameplate, ink on wood, bearing the name “suna.” Suna meaning sand.

      “Unusual name, isn’t it?” I asked. “Suna?”

      “There are a few in the area,” the mother replied.

      Her son’s hair was graying, though he looked my age, forty-five or so.

      When he asked what time I wanted breakfast, it was as if I knew his voice. And yet it was obvious we had never met. Perhaps his voice reminded me of an acquaintance, only I couldn’t think who. It wasn’t the voice itself, it was a tremor in its depths that I recognized.

      I don’t need breakfast, I answered, and he emerged from behind the counter to lead the way. My room was at the end of the hall. I’ll come back to spread the futon, he announced dryly, the bath is downstairs. When he was gone, I drew the thin curtain aside and saw the sea before me. I could hear the waves. There was no moon. I strained my eyes, peering out into the darkness, trying to make out the waves, without success. The room felt warm, stuffy, as if it had been readied long in advance. I slid the window open and let the cool air flow in.

      The bath was dim. Condensation dripped, slowly, from the ceiling.

      I let my thoughts turn to Seiji. I’ll have to stay at the office tonight, he’d said. Back in Tokyo. He had described the nap rooms there for me more than once, but I could never picture them in detail. It’s just a small, cramped room with a bed, that’s all. We have three of them. If the door is locked, you know someone is sleeping inside, he tells me. Never having worked at a company, I picture a hospital room—that’s the best I can do. A pipe-frame bed with a beige blanket, enclosed by a curtain; a pair of slippers set out on a floor made of a material that amplifies the sound of footsteps; at the head of the bed, a help button and a temperature chart.

      No, it’s not like that—just an ordinary, low-ceilinged room. Maybe a magazine lying on the floor that someone left behind. Ordinary. Seiji purses his lips. He never laughs aloud. When he smiles, it shows in his cheeks. This used to puzzle me; now I am used to it.

      Whenever I stay in those rooms, he says, by the time I fall asleep, the night is paling. Toward dawn, it grows quiet. Most of the lights are out on every floor, and once it’s dark the sounds that echo through the building subside, too. I stretch my exhausted body out on the stiff bed, but I’m so on edge, it’s hard to fall asleep—I don’t have any rituals for sleeping, not since I was a kid, but when I started spending nights at the office I took up my childhood practice again. I imagine myself floating in water, not half-submerged as I would be in real life, but lying right on the surface, stretched out perfectly still, first the back of my head and then my back, my butt, my heels, resting on the taut surface of the water, motionless, waiting, and as the parts of my body that come in contact with the water begin, little by little, to grow warm, I fall asleep, Seiji says, and once again purses his lips.

      I was back from my bath. Unlike Seiji, there was no need for me to sleep, so I didn’t go to bed. Only when the sliver of outside color between the curtains began changing from black to blue did I feel tired. Seiji is probably nodding off right now, I told myself as I switched off the light and closed my eyes.

      It was past nine when I woke, and the room brimmed with light. The roar of the waves was louder than the night before. At the front desk, I asked the way to the cape. The son took a pencil and paper and traced the outline of the promontory; then, in the center, he drew in the roads. It looks like something, doesn’t it, this shape? I said. Maybe, I don’t know. The son’s voice reminded me of someone, but still I couldn’t think who. I recognized the shape immediately. It was the spitting image of a dragon: the head, from the neck up. Even the whiskers were there, under the nose.

      I’d say it’s a bit under an hour to the tip on foot, said the son. It’ll take longer if you walk slowly, his mother called out from the back room. Oh, and—I haven’t made up my mind yet, but I might want to stay tonight, too, if you have a vacancy? I had seen no sign of other guests, I was the only person there last night, I was sure, so I thought I would only have to ask and they would say, Of course, you’re welcome to stay. But the son cocked his head, uncertain.

      The fishermen come on Fridays. We’re usually full up, as long as the waves aren’t too choppy. Try giving us a call later. I nodded ambiguously, and left. According to the schedule at the bus stop, the next bus wasn’t for half an hour. I wanted to leave my bag at the train station. I could make it to the station in half an hour, even on foot. I peered up the steep incline, wavering, then decided to wait. I went down to the shore.

      The ocean is dull. Nothing but waves tumbling in. I sat on a mid-sized rock and stared out over the sea. The wind blew hard. Every now and then a damp burst of spray reached me. The first day of spring had long since come and gone, but the day was chilly. Sand fleas scuttled out from under the rocks, then retreated.

      I never planned to come and spend the night