“First the bento, then the bullet train? I need you to tell me what you’re planning today.”
“A long train trip. You know, like I texted you about?”
“And by train you meant the bullet train? Just how long is this trip anyway?”
She looked like she just remembered something, then reached into her pocket and retrieved two rectangular slips of paper: train tickets.
She handed me one. When I read it, my eyes widened in shock.
“This is a joke, right?” I said.
She laughed. Not a joke, it seemed.
I said, “Come on, that’s too far for a day trip. We need to come up with a new plan.”
“Oh no, [Boy I’m Getting along With]-kun, you’ve got it all wrong.”
“Ah, good. So this is a joke.”
“No. It’s not a day trip.”
I blinked. “What?”
The rest of our conversation went nowhere, and she overpowered me in the end. Here’s the short version; that should be enough:
She insisted, I tried to persuade her, she brought out my text from the night before, and she took advantage of my unwillingness to break my word.
The next thing I knew, we were on the bullet train.
Sitting in the window seat, I sighed. As I watched the landscape gliding by outside, I tried to decide if I should just accept my situation now that I was already in it. Next to me, she was enjoying her mixed rice.
She said, “I’ve never been to Fukuoka before. Have you?”
“I haven’t.”
“Don’t you worry, I bought us a guide book.”
“Oh, okay.”
I cursed myself; surely even a boat of reeds should have its limits.
Making matters worse, she’d paid for my ticket like she’d paid for my yakiniku. She told me not to worry about it, but I committed myself to repay her no matter the personal cost.
I was thinking about getting a part time job when she thrust a mandarin orange in front of my face.
“Want one?” she asked.
“Sure. Thanks.” I took the orange and peeled it without another word.
“You seem down,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re not on board with this.”
“I’m on board with your plan and this train. I’m just taking a long hard look at myself.”
“Don’t be so depressing. This is a trip. You’ve got to cheer up!”
“I’d say this is less a trip and more like an abduction.”
“Instead of looking at yourself,” she said, “you should look at me.”
I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She seemed to decide on ignoring that. Finished with her bento meal, she put the lid back on and slipped a rubber band around the plastic container to keep it closed. Her brisk movements seemed very alive.
I didn’t feel like remarking on the difference between the vibrant image she projected and the reality underneath. Instead, I quietly ate the orange one wedge at a time. The fruit was surprisingly sweet and delicious for something bought at a train station kiosk. I looked out my window and saw an unfamiliar vista of wide open, rural countryside. A scarecrow stood in one of the fields. I don’t know why, but at that moment, I decided that, if I’d already chosen to come on the trip, there was no point in continuing to fight it.
She was reading up on local specialties in a travel magazine when she suddenly asked, “By the way, [Boy I’m Getting along With]-kun, what’s your first name?”
Gazing at the wooded mountains in the distance had put me in a tranquil mood, so I answered without any fuss. My name isn’t particularly unusual, but she nodded her head several times with deep interest. Softly, she said my full name to herself.
Then she said, “Isn’t there an author with a name like yours?”
“Yeah,” I answered, “although I don’t know which one you’re thinking of.”
Both my family name and my given name were similar to that of one of two novelists.
She asked, “Is that why you like reading so much?”
“Yes and no. It’s why I started reading, but I like reading because I enjoy it.”
“Is your favorite writer one with your name?”
“No. My favorite is Dazai Osamu.”
When I said the name of a great literary master, the girl’s eyes widened with some surprise. “Isn’t that the guy who wrote No Longer Human?”
“That’s him.”
“That book is kind of dark, isn’t it? Is that what you like?”
“It’s true that Dazai’s brooding nature comes through in the novel’s atmosphere, but I don’t know if I would simply call it dark.”
For once I was speaking with excitement, but she pouted her lips in disinterest and said, “Hmmm, well, it still doesn’t sound like something I want to read.”
“You don’t seem that interested in reading books at all.”
“Yeah, not really. I read manga, though.”
I’d figured as much. Not in a judgmental way; I just couldn’t picture her sitting still long enough to read a novel. Even when she read manga in her room, I imagined she did so moving around and making verbal reactions through the whole thing.
Seeing little point in talking about a topic that didn’t interest her, I instead asked a question that was on my mind.
“It must have been some trick getting your parents to let you go on this trip. How’d you pull it off?”
“I told them I was going with Kyōko. If I tell my parents it’s something I want to do before I die, they’ll get all teary and will pretty much let me do anything. But a trip with a boy… They just wouldn’t understand.”
“That’s low, taking advantage of your parents’ emotions like that.”
“How about you?” she asked. “What excuse did you give your parents?”
“They think I have friends. I’ve been lying to them about not having any so they won’t worry about me. I told them I’m staying at a friend’s house tonight.”
“That’s low, and sad, too.”
“It’s not hurting anyone. You could at least give me credit for that.”
She shook her head with exasperation and took out a magazine from the backpack at her feet. I didn’t think that was a fair way to act when, by instigating this trip, she was the one who put me in the position of having to deceive my parents, whom I loved very much. Anyway, with her opening a magazine, I saw my chance to retrieve a paperback from my school bag. The morning, as turbulent as it was unusual, had exhausted me, and I focused myself on the story to find some relief.
As soon as I opened the book, I immediately suspected her inevitable intrusion upon my peace and quiet. I now inhabited a constant state of suspicion, though whose fault that was I won’t say. Contrary to my premonition, this valuable personal time passed by without disruption, and it was only when I reached a stopping place that I realized I’d obtained a precious, tranquil hour of reading. I looked to my side and saw her blissfully sleeping with the magazine against her stomach.
I looked at her face in slumber and saw nothing of the illness that lurked inside. I got the notion to write on her face with a marker but decided to spare her.
She didn’t wake up before our bullet train reached our destination, and she didn’t wake up once we got there, either.
I don’t mean to suggest her short life had expired on the train that day, she simply was in a deep sleep. Please try not to jump to such an inauspicious conclusion.
I gently pinched her cheek and her nose, but she mumbled something unintelligible and didn’t wake. As a last resort, I smacked her on the back of her hand with a rubber eraser, and she leaped to her feet in comical overreaction.
She shouted, “How about you try calling my name first!”
She punched my shoulder.
Can you believe that? After I did her the favor of waking her up.
Luckily this was the train’s last stop, and we were able to leisurely collect our belongings and disembark.
“We made it!” she said. “Wow! I can smell the ramen already.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re just imagining that.”
“No, I’m sure of it. Has your nose gone bad?”
Not too harshly, I said, “Hey, at least my mind hasn’t gone bad like yours.”
“Actually, it’s my pancreas that’s gone bad.”
“That’s a dirty trick. You can’t play that card to win every time. It’s not fair.”
She laughed and said, “If you don’t like it, you should come up with your own.”
I wasn’t planning on getting an incurable disease in the near future, so I politely declined.
We rode a long escalator down from the railway platform and emerged onto a wide corridor lined with gift shops and waiting areas. The space was pleasant, with that crisp cleanliness of a newly constructed building (whether the space was, in fact, a new addition or not, I didn’t know).
A second escalator took us to ground level, where we finally passed through the exit turnstiles. In that moment, I experienced something that left me shaken and questioning my senses. Just as my companion had said, I could smell the ramen. If this smell was real, then what did that mean for other prefectures known for their local cuisine? Did one smell like tonkatsu sauce, and another like udon noodles? Lacking the necessary travel experience, I couldn’t deny the notion outright, but I still found it hard to believe a single food dish could so thoroughly seep its way into daily life.