When I met the man who called himself Kino, I was eleven years old and still living in the village where I was born. I can honestly no longer remember what I was called then. I do rem ember that it was the name of a flower, and that if you changed the sound just a little bit, it became a terrible insult. The other children made fun of me a lot.
Kino was tall and very thin when I met him. He came to my village on foot. The young gate guard s were not at all sure that they should let him in. They had to contact their superiors and wait for their judgment. While they waited, the guards forced him to apply a powdery, white insect repellent to his head merely to humiliate him. It didn't appear to achieve the desired effect.
I not iced him while he was being forced to wait, watched him as he entered with immense dignity, and never took my eyes off him until he was right in front of me. By then, the sun was setting, and his long shadow came all the way to my feet and then covered me.
He was wearing a type of boot that I had never seen before. He wore a black jacket and a long brown coat that was so dusty, I wondered if he'd found it in a hole in the ground. He carried a tattered backpack on his shoulder. He was thin, too. So thin, it made me hungry to look at him. His cheeks were sunken, his hair disheveled. White powder still clung to the strands.
I was taller than any of my friends, but he still had to stoop to speak to me. "Hey there, little girl. My name is Kino. I'm a traveler. What's your name?”
I thought Kino was a good name, short and easy to say. Better than some stupid flower name. I told him my name anyway.
"What a pretty name. Tell me, is there a hotel in town? If you know a place that's not too expensive and has a shower, I sure would appreciate it. I'm awfully tired."
At the time, my mother and father ran a cheap hotel. "Sounds like our place," I said.
Kino smiled happily. That was just what he wan ted, he told me.
I led him to my home.
Father clearly disliked Kino on sight, but his face showed his disapproval for only a moment before he put on a strained smile. Then he rose from behind his desk to lead my new friend to his room. He did not, after all, disapprove of Kino's money.
Kino picked up his bag again, thanked me, and went up the stairs after my father.
I went to my own room. There was a banner on the wall with "Three more days" written on it in big red letters.
The next day, I woke up around noon and washed my hair in the bedroom sink. My father and mother hadn't come to wake me up. After all, it was my final week. The banner in my room now read "Two more days.”
I heard a noise at the rear of the house, and went out through the garden. Behind my house was a big pile of scrap metal with bits of machines that had broken down years before. The village children often played around in it – that is, until the sun went down.
Kino crouched next to the scrap heap, hammering on something. It was a wheel rim. Not the thick kind that goes on a car, but a thin one. There was a motorcycle frame lying next to Kino. I supposed the wheel belonged to it.
Kino noticed me watching. "Good morning." he said. His hair was still disheveled, but the insect powder was gone, so it shined a bit more.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
''I'm mending this motorcycle. I asked if I could buy it, but your father said it was an old piece of junk and I could have it if I wanted."
"You can fix it?"
"I can cure it." Kino laughed, adding that it would take some time because it was in pretty sorry condition.
When he had finished hammering the wheel into shape, he attached it to the motorcycle. Then he busied himself hammering on things, pulling on them, and putting little pieces together to make bigger, more complicated pieces.
I watched him for a while. Then I got hungry, and went into the house to get something for breakfast.
After breakfast, I went out to check on Kino again. He had about half the motorcycle "cured." It was standing upright now, leaning on a bent kickstand.
"It looks just like a motorcycle I used to travel with a long time ago," Kino said, turning around. He was polishing a rod of some kind.
"How long will it take?” I asked casually. "To finish curing it, I mean?"
"Mm, about another day, I think. He should be moving around soon enough."
He? "Motorcycles can move on their own?" I asked, latching onto Kino's strange choice of words.
"Well, to be completely accurate, not on his own, no. Someone has to sit on top of him, make a pact with him. Then he can move."
"What's a 'pact’?"
Kino looked at me, and patted the motorcycle's gas tank lightly, almost stroking it. "In this case, the contract is a promise to help each other."
"Help each other how?"
"Well, I can't run nearly as fast as a motorcycle can drive," he said.
I nodded. He was sort of scrawny and probably couldn't run very fast or far.
"And motorcycles may be ab le to go fast, but they can't keep their balance unless someone is sitting on top of them."
"Okay." I nodded.
"So I sit on top of the motorcycle and provide balance; the motorcycle provides speed, and we can enjoy our travels together."
"So you help each other. That's a pact," I concluded.
"Exactly. So as soon as he wakes up, I'll ask him what he thinks."
"Will he tell you?"
"Of course!" he said, and winked at me.
I went back inside, made some tea, and brought a cup out to Kino. He sipped it and said it was very good. When he'd finished a little less than half the cup, he said, "We should pick a name for him. What do you think?"
"What did you call your old motorcycle?"
"Hermes."
"Sounds good to me."
"Really? Hermes it is, then." Kino smiled happily.
I believe I smiled back.
After that, Kino resumed curing the motorcycle. I sat behind him, watching for a while, then asked, "What do you do, Kino?"
"Do?" he asked, without turning around. His hands kept on working.
"You're a grownup, right?"
"Well, more of one than you are, at any rate."
"But every grownup has to do some kind of job, right?"
Kino looked a little confused, I thought. Now I understand why. "Um... yes, I guess so."
"'Then what's your job?" I pressed.
"Hmm, I suppose you could say I'm a traveler." Kino replied. "Yes. A professional traveler."
"So your job is to go to all kinds of different places?"
"Yeah."
"Even bad places?"
"Sometimes. But most places are good, and I have a very good time."
"Well, then that's not a job," I said. Kino's hands stopped working, and he turned around to look at me. "Jobs are hard," I explained. "They're never fun. They're not supposed to be. They're just something you have to do to stay alive. If you have fun doing it, then traveling is not a job."
"Really?" he murmured, tilting his head to one side.
I thought he was laughing at me, so I tried to show him I understood how the world worked. "That's why tomorrow – no, the day after tomorrow – I've got to have an operation."
He looked puzzled. "What kind of operation?"
"To become a grownup. So this is my 'final week.’"
Kino asked me what I meant. At first, I was surprised that he didn't know about the "final week." Then realized I shouldn't be. Of course he didn't know about the final week; he wasn't from around here. I decided I should explain. Even though it would take a long time, I knew he would listen.
In my village, I told Kino, everyone who's over twelve was considered a grownup. Everyone under that age was a child. Grownups were people with jobs and responsibilities.