Chapter 2

Used bookfairs aren’t good for me. If I wander around one for too long, I’m overcome with migraines, start to feel pessimistic, become more masochistic, am drained of all semblance of motivation, and eventually, end up with autotoxemia. Even if I manage to return to my room, I’ll have dreams of a radiant beauty strapping me down to an operating table and forcing me to eat slice after slice of Heibonsha’s World Encyclopedia. So during the used bookfair season, I inevitably grow melancholy. And this year, I swore I wouldn’t visit any of them. But at the last minute, there ended up being a reason I just had to attend. She wanted to go. She’s a younger member of the club I’m in at my university, and I am her secret admirer. The day before the fair, that black-haired maiden had said, “Tomorrow I’m going to the used bookfair.” I got that information from a reliable source. The moment I heard it, a plan—more like a divine revelation—popped into my head. She finds a book at the fair and eagerly reaches out her hand. But wait! Another hand is reaching out at the same time. When she looks up, it’s me standing there. I don’t hesitate to surrender the book to her like a gentleman. She politely thanks me. Without missing a beat, I reply with a leisurely smile, “Say, would you like to go to that stall over there and enjoy a nice, cold bottle of soda?” Listening to the cicadas, we treat ourselves to a Ramune break. As we discuss our hauls at the bookfair, trust will blossom between us before we know it. With my natural-born wit, the rest is exceedingly simple. All must naturally go as I envision. Ahead lies a future with the black-haired maiden by my side. That’s a plan without a single blemish, if I do say so myself, and everything was flowing so naturally—it was magnificent. Once it was realized, we would surely have conversations that go, When you really think about it, it all started when we reached for that book. I had no way to stop my runaway romance engine, and eventually, I was so embarrassed, I got a nosebleed. Know shame and perish. But I no longer lent an ear to the inner voice of reason. Why? Because at present-day university, right at the threshold of absolute depravity, I’d been ashamed countless times, but even if I employed good manners, it never paid off. It was on the approach to Shimogamo Shrine in Kyoto. The wide road goes through Tadasu no Mori, where elderly camphor trees and hackberries stand together. It was right around the time of Obon break, so the cicadas were singing without rest. There was a bizarre vibe in the air, west of the road leading to the shrine on the riding grounds used for mounted archery. Though there seemed to be a crowd, it wasn’t very rowdy. People whispered, perhaps out of consideration for their surroundings—it was just like a gathering of mythical creatures. Across the stream flowing from Mitarashi pond, many white tents were set up on the riding ground that stretched north-south. People moved among them. Despite being in the forest, it was hard to escape the mugginess of summer, and some people walked around wiping their sweat away with towels. They roamed from tent to tent with a deviant gleam in their eyes, never tiring of searching through wooden boxes packed with grimy old things. On the navy streamer, flapping and fluttering, were the words KYOTO ANTIQUARIAN BOOKFAIR. I headed for Tadasu no Mori in the early afternoon. But as I wandered the bookfair, I became extremely bored. No matter where I went, it was all used books—and I didn’t see the girl on my mind. Not only that, but it was a late-summer afternoon, so it was terribly humid. Since I had nothing to do, I practiced reaching out for the same book as she did, but as I rehearsed diligently in my own fashion, I grew furious with myself for having nothing better to do than acquire proficiency in this utterly nontransferable skill. An endless sea of books surrounded me as I stewed with a face like a Daruma doll. Their covers called out to me, How about reading us and growing a little wiser, Boss? But I was already sick of entrusting my hopes to them. Though I read and read, never did I ever reach the final volume, nor could I throw away my books and rally in the streets… After reading for superficial reasons, I hadn’t even played with the flames of love, as they were over the mountains, far to wander. My once-pure soul was covered in dust and disgrace, and my youth was wasted right on schedule. O God of Used Bookfairs, I ask that you grant me not wisdom first, but profit. After that, please grant me wisdom as well. In the middle of the riding ground was a resting area furnished with benches covered in felt. I sat down on one and wiped away my sweat. When I looked up, desperate to find air that didn’t smell like old books, I could see the blue summer sky through the treetops. As I absentmindedly watched the people coming and going through the space, I noticed grimy older guys, terribly serious university-student types, fashionable girls giving off art-school vibes, and elderly men with long beards who looked like hermits. Among them, I saw young men and women, sweaty hand in sweaty hand, going around browsing books together, which was absolutely stifling. Then I jumped with a start. In front of one of the used booksellers stood a petite woman gazing intently at a pocket paperback, and from the back, she looked a lot like the girl. Her black hair, cut short for the summer, gleamed in the sun. Ever since she’d joined the club, I willingly yielded as her follower and spent months just staring at her from behind; I could be recognized as the global authority on that sight. If I’m the one saying there was a resemblance, there was no doubt about it. I leaped to my feet. As soon as I set off running, I crashed into a child walking my way. The kid spun around, staggered, and finally dropped onto their bottom. Meanwhile, I stumbled, clicking my tongue, and glared at the little person obstructing my path to love. It was a boy, probably in late elementary school. Though he didn’t cry out, his big, horribly beautiful eyes rapidly filled with tears, and he stared at my chest. When I looked down, my shirt held the wreckage of the soft serve he’d apparently been licking. “Dammit. How are you going to fix this?” I groaned. “It’s everywhere.” “Before you start complaining, shouldn’t you say you’re sorry?” he suddenly said in a hoarse, mature-sounding voice as he dusted himself off. “Or are you incapable of apologizing when you go and ruin someone’s fun?” Then he scornfully pointed at the ice cream on my shirt. “You owe me for that!” I was astounded by his powerful tone—it brooked no argument. He grabbed my arm and tried to drag me back to the food stall. “Hold up, how old are you?” “This year, I’m ten. What about it?” “Fine. I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I’ll pay you back. Stop pulling on me.” The image of a future with her had descended on the bookfair for a moment before receding into the distance. She was reading a paperback with incredible enthusiasm. I must have found the sight so charming because she had fallen in love with that book. They say maidens in love are beautiful. But what did these grimy old books intend to do after deceiving her so? For a bunch of old papers, they’re awfully bold, I fumed. I stared so hard at the back of her head, I practically burned a hole in it and called out to her in my mind: If you have time to read those, then read me! There are quite a lot of interesting things written here. If you’ll excuse me, I will take this opportunity to explain. The book I was absorbed in reading at the time was Gerald Durrell’s Birds, Beasts, and Relatives. That day was a day worth commemorating: It was my used bookfair debut, after all. I’m sure I’ll never forget how moved I was when I stepped into Tadasu no Mori and saw the seemingly endless flood of used books bathed in the cicadas’ song. Just the thought that I was sure to encounter a wonderful book in this ocean gave me shivers and filled me with enthusiasm. I did my bipedal robot dance at the entrance to the fair to express my eagerness and delight. Used booksellers lined both sides of the riding ground, and all of them caught my eye. If one bookseller on the right shouted, We’ve got some interesting stuff here! another one on the left would shout, But mine are more interesting! I fidgeted, overwhelmed, like a firefly tempted by the tasty waters of the Lake Biwa Canal. If that’s how it was going to be, I had to resolve myself to see anything and everything. And the book I encountered was Birds, Beasts, and Relatives. It seemed to lean out from the hundred-yen paperback shelf, calling out to me. When I took the book in my hands, I moaned a little, which I’m embarrassed to admit sounded rather erotic… But I couldn’t help it. Never for a moment had I forgotten Birds, Beasts, and Relatives. I learned of Gerald Durrell in junior high when I read My Family and Other Animals, a book of unparalleled enjoyment, and years had passed since I heard rumors of a sequel. That I should encounter such a book the moment I set foot in a used bookfair for the first time ever was nothing if not amazing luck. And to think the book I had wanted since I was in junior high cost only a single hundred-yen coin! What happy news for me, as someone who couldn’t quite trust her wallet. Viva beginner’s luck! Or do I have a used bookfair aptitude? I grew even more excited. Unable to do anything whatsoever about the smile creeping over my face, I kept walking along with a rather suspicious-looking grin—even for me—when a man wearing a Japanese yukata called to me with a “Hey!” from where he was sitting on a bench in the center of the riding ground. His haul for that day was stacked there, and he seemed to be savoring the sweet taste of victory as he wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. Next to him was a lady with a parasol who looked to be in her mid-thirties, also in traditional Japanese garments, quietly reading a volume from the collected works of Sakunosuke Oda. “It’s been a while, Mr. Higuchi.” I bobbed my head. He smiled. “Not since that night, right? How have you been? Still drinking?” “I’m fine, thank you. But I haven’t had much occasion to drink lately.” “Then we should go drinking. Hanuki’s been wanting to see you.” “She isn’t here today?” “She hates used books. Apparently, anyone who has no problem collecting these filthy things is an idiot.” I met Mr. Higuchi one night in Kiyamachi. Led by him and Ms. Hanuki, I had a truly bizarrific night. You could say they really taught me how to fully enjoy the strangeness of the streets after dark. But although we drank a ton and talked so much, I still had no idea who they were. I didn’t even know why he always wore a yukata. “I’ll treat you to stir-fried noodles.” He stood up. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly let you treat me, Mr. Higuchi…” “Right? I only treat someone about once every quarter century, but today is fine—because I found something.” Mr. Higuchi proudly showed me a few books. There were four volumes with the same binding in different colors that reminded me of the sorts of books I’d find in my grandmother’s living room. They had weird titles like Justine and Balthazar. I saw it was a series of novels by Lawrence Durrell called The Alexandria Quartet. When I thought, Ah, this has an air of “literature” about it, and that has almost nothing to do with me, I was even more inclined to respect Mr. Higuchi. He must be capable of sustaining this utterly good-for-nothing lifestyle and hard-core obfuscation of his personal details precisely due to his profound educational background. Yes, indeed. But Mr. Higuchi declared he had no interest in the books and didn’t know what they were about. “Someone I know wants these, so I’m going to sell them for quite a price. And I have another way to rake in a pretty penny today, too. You can’t go wrong sticking with me.” Mr. Higuchi wrapped the books up in a cloth bundle and set off walking. “You know, there are people in this world willing to pay premium to buy bundles of papers stained with ink,” he marveled. “Boy, am I thankful for books.” From there we headed for a stall on the south end of the riding ground. On the way, I saw an older member from my club. He was walking dejectedly north. Next to him was a little boy so adorable he looked like a girl. The kid was licking some soft serve while keeping a tight hold on the hem of my clubmate’s shirt. Maybe that’s his brother? I thought as I watched them pass by. But I continued on with the goal of stir-fried noodles in mind. It’s not as if I was letting that unlikable boy drag me around by choice. “I bought you your soft serve, so you’re satisfied now, right? Scram.” “Nah.” “Hey, don’t pull on my shirt!” “Oh, don’t be such a sourpuss.” “What’s up with that? Why do you talk like an old man?” “Because I’m an extremely old soul. Older than you.” “Don’t you know how to respect your elders? This is why I hate kids.” “What we see in others is a reflection of ourselves.” I stopped in my tracks and turned to glare at him in traditional Kabuki fashion, but he was completely unfazed. In the middle of the riding ground stood a skinny boy. In one hand, he held the hem of my shirt, and in the other, a soft serve cone. Every time he licked it, he looked up as if to stick his tongue out at me. His soft brown hair blew in the hot breeze. He had big, pretty eyes with lashes so long, it seemed as if he’d generate wind with every blink. If he cut out the spiteful old-man talk, he’d probably be mistaken for a girl. I kept walking. “Whatever, just don’t follow me. I’m busy.” “There’s no one with more time on their hands than someone who says they’re busy. They feel guilty for having nothing to do, so they go around saying how busy they are. I mean, someone who was really busy wouldn’t have time to be browsing a used bookfair—your logic’s flawed!” “Your youth is showing, kid!” I laughed at him. “In busyness, there is leisure, and in leisure, there is busyness. Maybe to a child like you, I appear to be merely browsing. But at times like these, my soul is a whirlwind of activity. You’re only seeing the eye of the storm.” “Liar. You came up with that just now.” “Shut up. I’m constantly keeping watch over my surroundings, not missing so much as a pin drop. If you’re not maintaining that level of alertness, you’ll never find a treasure in the midst of such commotion like this used bookfair. If you’re out here playing around, you’re gonna get hurt!” “But you’re not looking for books.” He snickered. “You’re looking for a female.” “Don’t be stupid!” I chastised. “And the word female shouldn’t roll off your tongue like that when you’re a kid. At least say lady!” “That petite one with the black hair cut short, right? With fair skin.” I turned around and grabbed him by the shoulders. His delicate body shook like a marionette, but he didn’t even get upset. A frightful little boy! I lowered my voice. “Hey, how did you know that?” “When you bumped into me, you were staring unabashedly at the girl by the stand over there, right? I’d have to be an idiot not to know.” I took my hands off the boy’s shoulders and brushed the wrinkles out of his shirt. “You’re a formidable fellow,” I said. “That’s a compliment, so you better appreciate it.” “I don’t, really, but whatever,” he said, loudly crunching into his cone. The shadow of a bird with big wings glided over the riding ground. Suddenly, a big shadow passed overhead. It might have been a bird. As I ate the noodles with Mr. Higuchi, I thought about books and coincidences. For example, encountering the book I’ve been in search of for years. Or walking along thinking about a book and having it suddenly appear before your eyes. Or discovering a passage about the same event or figure in two totally unrelated books. Or an extreme example: I’ve heard it’s possible for you to sell a book, only to have it do its rounds in used booksellers and come back to your arms. There are so many books being bought and sold, making their way around this world, that maybe it’s only natural for such coincidences to occur. Perhaps we unconsciously select which books to encounter. Or maybe we think it’s a coincidence, but it’s just that we can’t see the tangled threads of fate. Even if I understand all those things logically, when I come across a coincidence to do with books, I end up feeling as if it’s some kind of destiny. I’m the sort of person who would like to believe in that. Full of noodles, I caressed my copy of Birds, Beasts, and Relatives and spoke of those things to Mr. Higuchi. “There’s a god orchestrating all those mysteries,” Mr. Higuchi said casually. “Have you ever heard of the God of Used Bookfairs?” “No, never.” “The God of Used Bookfairs is behind all the various mysteries to do with used books that occur in this world. It assists with those blessed encounters with the book you’ve been pining after, it brings men and women together through used books, and it organizes windfalls for used booksellers. Serious book collectors all worship this god at altars in their homes, never failing to pray both morning and night. Additionally, at the beginning of each month, they recite a ritual prayer and make an offering of a used book. Then that night, they hold a book club and a banquet for the god, reading used books and eating delicious dishes all night long. Collectors can’t neglect this ceremony no matter how busy they may be. The God of Used Bookfairs facilitates meetings between collectors and the books of their dreams, but on the other hand, it also metes out terrifying punishments.” “What sort of punishments…?” I trembled. “Books abruptly disappear from the shelves of the collectors who ignore the god. The God of Used Bookfairs abducts them!” “Oh, how horrible!” Mr. Higuchi got a strange grin on his face. “The God of Used Bookfairs is said to appear in many forms, so no one knows what it really looks like. One time, it might be a man with an angular face wearing glasses; another, it might be an elderly scholar, or a graceful woman in Japanese dress, or a beautiful boy with rosy cheeks, or a man of unknown age wearing a faded yukata for some reason, or a black-haired maiden… The god takes on their appearances and descends on used bookfairs. Then it mingles with the booklovers and sneaks unbelievably valuable books onto the shelves before leaving again. And since it’s the work of a god, the booksellers don’t notice the increase in books. The god leaves behind the books it stole from impious collectors.” I thought of the books I was quietly amassing at home. I’d never prayed to the God of Used Bookfairs. In a panic, I brought my palms together and prayed, “Namu-namu!” This is a multipurpose prayer I developed myself; I’ve used it often ever since I was a little girl reading picture books. “Yes! We must hurry and pray! Namu-namu!” “Namu-namu!” “Books get published and bought by people. Then those people let go of them, and when a book passes to another person, it gets to live again. In that sense, books are reborn over and over, connecting people as they go. That’s why, sometimes cruelly, the god releases used books into the world. Imprudent collectors, beware!” Mr. Higuchi laughed at the summer sky as if he were the god descended onto this bench. Then he looked up and said, “It’s gotten a bit cloudy, hasn’t it?” The sky had been unbelievably bright until a little while ago but now had become partly cloudy. With thick gray clouds peeking down from above the treetops, the humidity grew even more intense. When I thought there might be a downpour, I became frantic. At this rate, I’d fail to find her and end up damp from raindrops and tears. That the self-proclaimed global authority on the view of her posterior was unable to exhibit his true skills was entirely due to the boy tagging along behind him. This was a clear violation of the right to have no choice but to pursue the black-haired maiden of their dreams. Each and every person in the world should be granted this basic human right in equal measure. Whenever I tried to channel my abilities to find her location, the boy would make an unnecessary remark in that pretentious way of his: “Oh, you’re looking for the one you love.” It really pissed me off, but that phrase, the one you love, also struck me as elegant and wonderful. “And what if I wasn’t looking for the one I love?” The boy tugged on my shirt and said, “What kind of books are you looking for?” “Oh, shush. Super-hard-core, difficult books. Kids would never understand them.” “You mean like Research on the History of Japanese Political Thought, or Thus Spoke Zarathustra, or Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus? Intimidating books like that?” “I’m impressed you can say ‘Zara-thu-stra’ without getting your tongue tangled up.” I was flabbergasted. “Why does a kid like you know a book like that?” “’Cause I know everything.” The only good thing about kids was their cuteness, and yet, he had overawed me with his exhaustive knowledge of anything to do with books. There wasn’t a book I picked up that he didn’t know. My self-respect shattered beneath the summer sky. Along the riding ground running north-south, each bookstore had its own camp surrounded by bookcases. They were like used-book fortresses. There were a great many stores in attendance, all in a row: Akao Shobundo, Inoue Shoten, Rinsen Shoten, Sanmitsudo Shoten, Kikuo Shoten, Ryokuudo Shoten, Hagi Shobo, Shiyou Shoin, Yuunan Shobo, etc. It was unclear which of the bookshelves scattered around belonged to which bookstore, which only compounded the sense of absolute chaos. Out back, behind the bookshelves in the shade of a tree or beneath a tent, were tables and chairs where proprietors and students who must have been part-timers licked their lips, waiting for customers. When I gazed at the spines of what must have been tens of thousands of books, I was tormented by a familiar delusion: Buried within the fray, there was one book that’d open up new horizons of glory in my life, a gift from the heavens. The books yelled, You haven’t even read me. You should be ashamed of yourself, you dummy! Read a book with some backbone and discipline your spirit! A book like me, for example. All you need to do is read me, and you’ll get it all: knowledge, ability, guts, soul, dignity, charisma, physical strength, health, and radiant skin. And as much food and drink as you like. What? You don’t need drinks? Well, it doesn’t matter. Just read me. “You don’t need to bend over backward, buddy,” the boy said, leaning against a bookshelf. “There’s no reason you have to read intimidating books. Don’t try so hard—just enjoy the chance meetings.” “I don’t need your consolation.” “There are plenty of other interesting-seeming books. Study hard while you’re young!” “Why should I listen to a pipsqueak like you?” “I’m saying it precisely because you need to hear it from me.” He smirked. “‘I want to try lining up all the books I’ve read in my life in order on a bookshelf.’ I read someone saying that once. Would you ever want to do that?” Mr. Higuchi asked. “I don’t read much, so it wouldn’t be very impressive even if I did line them up, but…” A bunch of books I’ve read came to mind. Of the more recent ones, Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, and then Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind, or Junichiro Tanizaki’s The Makioka Sisters, Fumiko Enchi’s A Tale of False Fortunes, Shugoro Yamamoto’s Lives of Great Japanese Women. And I couldn’t forget Moto Hagio, Yumiko Oshima, and Izumi Kawahara. Going back to my elementary school era, I remembered a lot of children’s literature: Roald Dahl’s Matilda, Erich Kästner’s Emil and the Detectives and The Flying Classroom, C. S. Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia, Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. But if I went back even further… I remembered the words ra ta tam. Yes, ra ta tam! I encountered that gem of a book when I was still as small as a chickpea and didn’t have the good sense of a civilized person yet. Back then, I spent my days committing mischief such as sneakily sticking one-yen stamps on the dresser. I was naughty only when I was very young. Ra Ta Ta Tam: The Strange Story of a Little Engine is a story about a little white train built by a man named Matthew. When Matthew leaves on a trip, the little white train goes after him on a weird adventure. The illustrations are just fantastic and oh so beautiful; I used to stare intensely at them, thinking how I’d love to visit those places and destinations. Even just a glimpse at a corner of that mysterious scenery was enough to get my imagination going; I never got bored of gazing at it. As I nostalgically reminisced with Mr. Higuchi about that picture book I no longer had, I writhed in agony. “How did I lose it?!” I groaned. Despite being that obsessed with it, my eyes were drawn away by all the other books I’d met in my life, and I had ignored that picture book to which I owed so much. Even though I’d written my name in it! I’m a cheater! How shameless! On Mr. Higuchi’s suggestion, we headed north toward the picture book corner. “XX Shoten. XX Shoten, please come to the fair office.” A voice over a loudspeaker vibrated through the languorous air. When I heard the announcement over the loudspeaker, I was browsing the booksellers lined up along the western side of the riding ground. As I stood there vacantly, an old man in a suit walked up and shoved me aside. Miffed, I watched him go and saw him race into a certain shady-looking used bookstore. The store’s name wasn’t displayed anywhere. Gigantic bookcases surrounded the tent and made the area shadowy and intimidating. There weren’t any customers. As I tried to peek into the narrow entryway, the boy said, “I don’t like this place. You should think twice about going in there. There’s something bad in the air. It smells like danger.” “Then you can run along now. I’m going in.” “Tch. You’re a bully.” That’s what he said, but apparently, he couldn’t bring himself to go inside. He stood in the sun for a little while, but eventually, he whirled around and left. This bookstore was constructed so that two corridors of bookcases led to the back. There I found the register, where the owner in black-framed glasses was going at it with an old man with messy gray hair. “Please wait just a little longer,” the shopkeeper said coldly, propped up on his elbows. “Couldn’t you at least show it to me?” the old man pressed him. The shopkeeper shook his head. The old man seemed like he was about to whack the keeper with his small black planner. “That won’t change my mind,” said the shopkeeper, unfazed. I didn’t know what they were fighting about, but I spied on them, thinking how awful it was, when the old man must have sensed my presence. He shot me a glare that said, What do you want? “Well, fine, I’ll wait a bit longer,” he said, then whipped down the corridor like the wind and left. I’d thought there were only two corridors, but I noticed another one going off to the right by the register. Most of the shops here were merely tents surrounded by shelves, but this one used its bookcases to create a building of sorts. The passage that lead farther back from the register was made of two bookshelves with veneered boards as a roof. The glow of a naked light bulb made the book-filled corridor seem like the entrance to a mystical maze. Farther ahead, the passage bent left, and I didn’t know what was beyond that. Perhaps at the end lay a dazzling world of obscenities that could never be described in polite company. Thick sweat oozed out of my forehead. “Hey, it’s hot back there, so you might not want to go in,” the shopkeeper with the black glasses warned, looking straight ahead. It was strange he didn’t turn to look at me. “You don’t want to die of heatstroke, do you?” He started laughing, as if something was so funny he couldn’t help it. It was already three o’clock. The sun was partially hidden, and it’d grown even muggier. In the picture book corner, I found a lot of nostalgic books, but not Ra Ta Ta Tam. I kept thinking no one would sell such a beautiful book to a used bookstore, which made me feel even guiltier for losing it. I’m such a dummy! I said in my head. A little boy must have found it amusing that Mr. Higuchi and I were examining the spines of all the picture books so seriously, because he asked, “What are you looking for?” When I took a good look at him, I saw that he was the boy who’d been following my clubmate around earlier. Now that he was standing right here, I just wanted to bask in his cuteness. Since I didn’t see my clubmate anywhere, perhaps it was my misunderstanding that this boy was his brother. “A picture book about a train called Ra Ta Ta Tam.” “I’ve seen that before,” said the boy. “With Matthew Tiny, right?” I got excited and shouted, “Yes, that’s it! Where did you see it?” “We used to have a copy at my house, but not anymore. A bad guy took it. But it might be here somewhere, so I’ll help you look.” “Oh, how kind of you.” Then the boy and I searched for Ra Ta Ta Tam, but it was nowhere to be found. Just as I was getting discouraged, Mr. Higuchi said, “There’s still something we could try. We can ask a bookstore to look for us. Let’s ask the shopkeeper at Gabi Shobo.” “Do you think he’ll find it?” “I’m sure he’ll search like his life depends on it, so take heart.” Mr. Higuchi puffed out his chest. “That old rascal has a soft spot for black-haired maidens. He’s an awful guy, but at times like this, he comes in handy.” I was going to thank the boy for searching with us, but he’d disappeared. It’s like he’s a phantom, I thought. I’m not saying I followed the boy’s suggestion, but I did give up on my ulterior motive of finding the secret book that’d bring me glory. Instead, I stuck to browsing things I was familiar with. Walking more freely between bookshelves, I ran into him again. “I went to look at the picture books like a proper child. You should’ve come. The one you love was there.” “What?!” “She’s looking for a book called Ra Ta Ta Tam.” “No, I’m not falling for that,” I said. “What a weird name for a book. You really expect me to believe that exists?” “I mean, it’s true.” “Please just get outta here. Why are you following me?” “You just keep going where I go. Don’t overthink it.” I ignored the boy and started going through some books. First, I found the complete set of Sherlock Holmes with a tremendous number of annotations by Baring-Gould. Then Jules Verne’s Mathias Sandorf. Then I gazed at the volumes of Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo, marveled at the plastic-wrapped volumes of Ruiko Kuroiwa’s translation from the Taisho period, flipped through Futaro Yamada’s Black Market Diary from the War Generation, saw Seishi Yokomizo’s In the Vault and Onibi, and thought, Yep, that cover is frightening, later finding myself surprised to see Barajujisha’s edition of On Watanabe’s Descendants of Androgynos respectfully enshrined, then stumbled on a volume of the collected works of Junichiro Tanizaki in a “three for five hundred yen” corner and stood there reading it before finding a volume of the collected works of Ryunosuke Akutagawa in the same corner, which I also read while standing, until I saw Fukutake Shoten’s Newly Collected Works of Hyakken Uchida, which was enough to stop me in my tracks, but I still didn’t open my wallet, instead gazing at Yukio Mishima’s On Authors and flipping through Osamu Dazai’s Fairy Tales. While reading Dazai, I remembered I had a placard at home that I bought in Tohoku when I visited Shayokan, and I remembered that on it were the words Was it so wrong to fall for you? and I remembered my shameful first romance in high school, which I never wanted to remember ever again, and I remembered the original reason I was exhausting myself wandering this used bookfair, and even I felt overwhelmed, though I usually stood up quite well against my own memories. I returned to the center of the fair to take a load off both my feet and my mind on a bench. The boy was sitting next to me. He was fooling around with a bunch of paper tags. When I noticed each had a yen amount and a shop name, I realized they must have been price tags for books. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing? The booksellers are going to be furious.” “Don’t worry about it. These will come in handy later.” He was carefully sorting the tags, changing their positions in his hand as if he were playing cards. I sighed and glanced around for the girl while he was absorbed in his naughty task. She wasn’t there, but some other people stood out to me. I first noticed a beautiful woman in Japanese dress sitting on the bench next to mine. Her clothing was conspicuous, but the strange part was how she sat perfectly straight despite holding a parasol, absorbed in the collected works of Sakunosuke Oda. Opinions would split on whether she fit the bookfair atmosphere. Sitting next to her was an old man, skinny as a crane, with long, messy gray hair. He was completely focused on the black planner he held right up to his nose. He radiated such determination, it wouldn’t surprise me if he started chomping on the planner at any moment, and I figured he had to be one of the notorious used-book demons. Next to the bench stood a short student. He wore angular black-framed glasses and had an angular face, and there was an angular Duralumin trunk at his feet. It would seem his creed was to not cut corners. And strangely, he was absorbed in a train schedule. I let my imagination wander. A peaceful, relaxed summer bookfair. But behind the scenes, even now, a gang of book thieves is attempting to set their plot in motion. The woman with perfect posture reading the collected works of Sakunosuke Oda is the group’s leader; the old man in charge of the encrypted black planner, busy confirming their scheme one last time, is the brains of the organization; and the angular fellow’s Duralumin trunk contains his seven tools, and he’s the technician who takes on all the crafty jobs, like lock breaking and counterfeiting antique books. All for one, and one for all. And they have just one mission… …To liberate books from the hands of villainous collectors. The owner of Gabi Shobo responded to Mr. Higuchi’s declaration with an “I seeee” and shrieked with laughter. The owner must have been over sixty years old. His head was shiny with almost no hair. He had a white towel over his shoulder that he frequently wiped his face with. But no matter how much he wiped, his teakettle head kept pouring out new sweat; it was a very strange sight indeed. Suddenly, the owner turned to me. Flustered, I averted my eyes and stopped admiring his head. “You can’t take anything this sly nurarihyon says at face value,” he said, referencing the old Japanese spirit who sneakily takes up residence in people’s homes. “I’ve never heard of a God of Used Bookfairs before.” “Don’t collectors make an offering of used books at the beginning of the month and hold a banquet?” I asked. “It’d be interesting if it were true.” He winced. “Yo, Higuchi. You better knock it off. Stop messing with this poor girl.” “I wasn’t teasing her. I swear to god it’s true.” “All that comes out of your mouth are jokes.” We were at the northernmost part of the riding ground at the Gabi Shobo base. A little while ago, the owner was working the register with his wife, surrounded by their bookshelves, but when Mr. Higuchi and I showed up, he left the rest to a young part-timer and came out. He led us behind the store into a grove of trees. There was incense smoldering in a can to ward off mosquitoes, and it was shrouding the clearing with smoke. A little table and chairs had been set out. It was a perfect forest hideaway for afternoon tea. I requested a search for the picture book Ra Ta Ta Tam, and the owner agreed. Then, as the three of us chatted over tea, Mr. Higuchi brought up the God of Used Bookfairs, which brings us back to the earlier conversation. The owner laughed and gulped down the tea he’d poured out of his thermos. “Collectors won’t be happy to have books liberated from them. For us, though, it’s great, because we can come across them again. But if that god came to today’s sale, it’d be a mess.” “If I were a god, I’d think it’s about time to visit some divine punishment on Rihaku.” “Don’t kid around.” The bookseller glared at Mr. Higuchi. According to his kind explanation, a private sale was to take place in one corner of the fair. It was being held by a man named Rihaku, who is someone I had drinks with once. He seemed to just be a nice old man, but he’s extremely rich, and I heard rumors he’s a heinous loan shark, so inhuman that he sheds neither blood nor tears. He was apparently selling books that he’d taken as collateral for loans and later added to his collection. And this sale wasn’t going to be an exchange of money but a bloody struggle for the participants’ very lives. In this fierce fight, only the most unwavering will be able to acquire the book of their dreams. In return, Mr. Rihaku would guarantee the quality of the items, so the goods would be quite something. The shop owner lowered his voice. “I honestly don’t much care for classics, but I heard some pretty amazing titles will pop up. On the modern side of things, he has the journal Ryusei Kishida lost when he was living in Okazaki. I wouldn’t believe it if Rihaku hadn’t said it himself.” “So you want me to get you that journal.” “Thanks. I’m sure if anyone can win, you can.” No used booksellers were allowed to participate in the sale. That was how Mr. Higuchi got his secret mission from the owner of Gabi Shobo. He was all set to participate. This was his other way of cleaning up today. “What sorts of things will they do at this secret sale?” The bookseller relaxed one of his cheeks into a crooked smile. The sky had grown even more overcast, darkening to the point where it almost felt as if the sun were going down. There was something menacing about his smile as he sat in the shadows of a tree. “Nobody knows what will happen before it happens. Only the ones who pass Mr. Rihaku’s trials receive the right to choose a book. But it’s no cakewalk! Many challengers lose their pride and everything else in the face of the unimaginable tribulation and are brought to their knees. Mr. Rihaku eats that up and washes it down with a drink…” No sooner had the leaves in the trees begun to rustle than the riding ground was abruptly enveloped in clouds of white. “Whoa, there it is!” The bookseller jumped up and ran to protect his wares. Luckily, we were under a big camphor tree, so we didn’t get rained on. Mr. Higuchi and I leisurely continued our tea party. He lit a cigarette. The mugginess that had filled up the area until a little while ago thinned out, and the sweet, somehow nostalgic smell of rain hung in the air. I recalled how I used to read picture books on rainy days at home on the garden porch. I stood motionless under a bookstore tent, sniffing the sweet smell of the rain. Standing next to me was the same boy from before. The downpour was so sudden that it stirred a flurry of frantic activity at first, but now the commotion had died down. The sky in the west was light, so I figured the weather would clear up before long. As I surveyed the area from beneath the tent, I saw many people picking out books to buy, unbothered by the rain. Especially surprising were the three whom I’d deemed a gang of book thieves on a whim. Though everyone had fled from the rain, leaving the middle area with the benches empty, those three were the exception, remaining in the same positions and opening umbrellas to tough it out. “Hey.” The boy suddenly called to me in a small voice, raising his slender arm to wave me over as if he were playing with an invisible yo-yo. “My father told me that if you picked up one book, the whole fair would float like a castle in the air. All the books are connected.” “What are you talking about?” “Even the books you were looking at before. Should I connect them?” “Try it.” “First, you found the complete set of Sherlock Holmes. The author Arthur Conan Doyle wrote a novel, rightly categorized as SF, called The Lost World, which was influenced by the French author Jules Verne’s work. Verne wrote Mathias Sandorf because he respected Dumas. And the one who adapted Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo was Ruiko Kuroiwa, who managed the newspaper Yorozu Choho. He appears as a character in The Meiji Tower of Babel. The author of that novel, Futaro Yamada, wrote in his Black Market Diary from the War Generation this one line disparaging Onibi as ‘rubbish.’ The author of that is Seishi Yokomizo. In Yokomizo’s younger days, he was editor-in-chief of a magazine called Shinseinen. He asked the author of Descendants of Androgynos, On Watanabe, to team up with him to edit it. Watanabe died on a business trip when the car he was riding in crashed into a train. In his memory, the one who wrote a piece called ‘Spring Chills’ was Junichiro Tanizaki. The one who criticized Tanizaki in a journal and debated literature with him was Ryunosuke Akutagawa, but several months after that, Akutagawa killed himself. Hyakken Uchida wrote the short story ‘Bowler Hat’ based on what Akutagawa was like around the time of the suicide. Yukio Mishima praised Hyakken Uchida’s prose. The one Mishima met when he was twenty-two years old and said ‘I hate you’ to was Osamu Dazai. A year before Dazai committed suicide, he wrote a memorial for someone and said, ‘You did good.’ That man, who died of tuberculosis, was Sakunosuke Oda. There’s someone reading a volume from his collected works over there.” The boy pointed over to the benches where the woman in Japanese dress was indeed reading the collected works of Sakunosuke Oda under her parasol. “Are you by any chance a monster?” I was astounded. “I know everything,” said the boy. “My father used to bring me here. And he taught me that books are connected. When I’m here, I can feel that the books are all equal and associating freely. They connect to create a sea, which is itself one big book. That’s why when my dad died, he wanted to release all his books back into this ocean.” “Your old man’s gone?” “Yep. That’s why I came here today. I’m on a mission to return my dad’s books to the sea.” He pointed up at the sky, which was beginning to clear up. “I will liberate books from the hands of wicked collectors. I am the God of Used Bookfairs!” I waited for the rain to lighten up before walking back into the bookfair. I thought about how the girl was probably taking cover from the rain somewhere around here. It made her all the more fascinating. “Going off into fantasyland on your own like that isn’t good for your mind or body,” the boy murmured as he peeled the tags off books. “Hey, you’re causing mischief again!” “Leave me alone.” “I can’t leave you alone if this is what you’re up to, stupid.” As we were fighting like that, the bearded owner of the shop approached us. He scowled scarily when he saw the boy’s fist full of tags. “What the—? What do you think you’re doing?” I pretended I didn’t know the kid, and the boy clammed up. “Give me all that stuff in your hand.” When the shopkeeper closed in on him, the boy suddenly started wailing. “This guy, he said if I didn’t do this, then he’d do the bad thing to me! I’m scared of the bad thing!” Up until a moment ago, he’d been talking like a mature adult and making fun of me, but he was suddenly screaming in an unthinkably childish tone as he started to cry. I was thinking what a nasty little twerp he was when the shopkeeper turned his sword on me. “What’s going on? What did you do to him?” “Huh? I didn’t do anything.” “But he says you told him to do this.” He grabbed my arm. “I’ll call the police if I need to!” “I have no idea—gimme a break.” “You’re not getting out of this so easily.” It turned into a wrangle. I’m an exceedingly honest person—honesty oozes from my pores like broth—but the shopkeeper treated me like evil incarnate pulling the strings behind this poor little boy’s antics. It must’ve been due to the fantasy that kids are pure and beautiful kids are even purer. It’s always ignored that university students are the purest creatures in the whole wide world, as they try to petrifyingly navigate their grimy youth. Eventually, a plump man came forward out of the crowd that had gathered to watch the fuss. “This fellow is an acquaintance of mine…,” he said. It was the owner of Chitoseya. “Oh, hello.” The bookseller bobbed his head. “He wouldn’t do something like that. This kid is just a brat. I saw him causing trouble doing the same thing at another shop.” I looked around for the boy, but he’d taken advantage of the uproar to skedaddle. The one who saved me from that tough spot ran a traditional Kyoto cuisine restaurant in Ponto-cho. Once, when I had been wandering between Kiyamachi and Ponto-cho, I had occasion to go there—apparently, he remembered me. “I don’t mean to imply you owe me a reward, but I do have a favor to ask,” he said. “I have a good job for you. There must be some reason we met here.” The owner of Chitoseya explained as we walked. Somewhere at the fair today, Rihaku was holding a book sale. A phantom book of smut written and illustrated by Katsushika Hokusai would be there. The owner was a representative of the Bedroom Investigation Commission, an organization interested in the preservation of sexy cultural heritage, so he just had to get his hands on it. But rumor had it that participating entailed a harsh trial. No one knew what kind of trial it would be, so he was worried about being the only one competing… “That’s why I want you to participate, too. We’ll hedge our bets.” “Ah, I can’t, really. I have stuff to do, too.” “Well, if you ask me, I just saved your butt, so you should be willing to return the favor,” he said. “And besides, I won’t do you wrong. If we get the Hokusai book, you’ll get a proper thank-you. How does a hundred thousand yen sound?” “Let’s do it.” I took the job. The owner of Chitoseya led the way through the bookfair, but even as we walked along, I kept my eyes peeled for the girl. The way things were going, I’d have to give up for the day. But once I snatched up a hundred thousand yen, they’d be my war chest, and my next move could be anything of my choosing. We eventually reached a bench in the middle of the riding ground. Those three eccentric strangers—the woman in Japanese dress reading Sakunosuke Oda, the old man with the gray hair, and the student with the angular face and the Duralumin trunk—were there. The woman didn’t look up from her book, but the old man and the student scowled at us. After we entered that strange atmosphere and waited a few minutes, the creepy bookseller with the black glasses sauntered over and grinned. “Is this everyone?” Just then a man of unclear age wearing a dingy yukata garment raced over, shouting, “Heyyy!” in a dopey voice. It was the weirdo Higuchi, who claimed to be a tengu that one night we met in Kiyamachi. I felt dizzy. It seemed as if this were going to be a party of monsters. The monsters (everyone except me) followed the bookseller with the black glasses through the fair. Now that the shower had ended, orangey summer sunshine illuminated everything in a dazzling light. In that glow, everything crowding around me appeared three-dimensional once more. And what chaos! Paperbacks and manga burying the shelves, odd volumes of collected works tossed into hundred-yen corners, valuable tomes elegantly displayed, fiction, poems, dictionaries, science books, reprints, chronicles, oversized art books and exhibition catalogs, stacks of old magazines, piles of B-movie tapes, classics—some in Chinese—whose titles I couldn’t read, tons of foreign books that’d crossed oceans to arrive in Kyoto, volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica and the World Encyclopedia that were so imposing, no one paid them any attention, colored copperplate prints in a box for ten yen a pop; brightly hued ukiyo-e hanging from tent poles, old maps of places I didn’t recognize, picture books children threw away, early Showa-period postcards from Kyoto, shady pamphlets, train schedules, self-published manuscripts, and even some books that could barely be called books… Any memory printed on paper could become a used book. Our party entered that creepy, deserted bookstore. It was gloomy and silent. We traveled down one of the corridors and were about to head into the side passage by the register when the woman in Japanese dress suddenly stopped. “My apologies, I’ve suddenly lost confidence.” “Oh, is that so?” said the bookseller in black glasses. “Well, anyone who feels the same should probably turn back now.” “It’s a bit awkward to ask a favor as I leave, but please give this to Mr. Rihaku.” She held out a book bound in the old Japanese style. The title was something-something and the characters for rare and jewel. The man with the black glasses nodded and took it. With only a sideways glance at the Sakunosuke Oda lady who dropped out so quickly, the rest of us carried on without a word. The book-lined corridor lit by naked light bulbs turned left and stretched out like an eel’s bed. The sounds of the fair were far behind us now. All we had was air chokingly thick with the smell of old books lining the walls and getting older and older as we walked. Finally, they were just bundles of discolored paper. Every so often, there was a window the size of a rice cracker in the ceiling. We could see the sun filtering through the trees into the hole. Before we knew it, the floor had changed from dirt to Western-style cobblestones. When that passage ended, we came upon a staircase that continued up a couple of stories. At the top was a thick iron door. A single lamp stood next to it, making it seem like some lonely street corner. A wooden label hung by the door written in big, bold cursive characters that read RIHAKU. The bookseller rang the bell. The moment he opened the door, a rush of air blew out with a roar and a rainbow-colored streamer-like something slipped past us and flew down the corridor of books. I had a bad feeling that gave me a chill. Beyond the door, the wind was so hot, it might have gushed forth from the cauldron of Hell. Everyone who entered the venue for the sale groaned as if they’d been hit in the back of the head with a blunt object. It was a long thin room about the size of a train car. Thick red carpet covered the floor, and in the back, a big grandfather clock stood swinging its pendulum. The phonograph emitting incomprehensible mantras created an uncanny atmosphere. Along the walls were multicolored braziers, candles as thick as the spiked clubs of demons, and lamps casting weak light. Grimacing red demon masks hung in a row on the wall, and a depiction of people engulfed in the flames of Hell loomed intimidatingly over us. Hanging from the ceiling was not a regular chandelier but a heated table, or a kotasu, illuminating all these curios that turned up the heat—physically and culturally. In the center of the banquet hall was another kotatsu, and on top of it, a hot pot split into two segments, brimming and bubbling with strange red and white soups. Thick, red floor pillows were arranged around the heated table, and awaiting us atop them were fluffy, warm-looking cotton-padded coats and a hot-water bottle for each participant. A cane chair had been placed in front of the clock, and Rihaku was sitting there relaxing in a traditional yukata garment. Grinning, he exposed his pasty, hairy legs and kicked noisily in a tub of water at his feet. “Welcome, my guests, welcome,” he said, flapping a fan toward his face. The bookseller with the black glasses gave the Sakunosuke Oda lady’s book to him, whispered something in his ear, and then left, mumbling, “Ugh, it’s so hot.” Rihaku put the book on a small black lacquer bookcase at his side. It was already full of many other books of all sizes. He patted the case. “These are things I received from a man in the distilling industry. It’s a fairly eclectic collection, but is an interesting lineup nonetheless. Now, sit under the kotatsu and warm up. The last one of you remaining can choose a book to take home. As a special exception, I’ll allow multivolume works to count as one book.” Rihaku’s face looked sinister in the candlelight. I was sure I saw him lick his lips. “Now then, gentlemen, have you already decided what you’re aiming for?” Five people announced their participation in this intense, life-and-death contest. The first was the mysterious yukata man, Higuchi, going for a journal written by Ryusei Kishida himself. The second was the student with the Duralumin trunk, a member of the Keifuku Electric Railroad Research Society, who was after a year’s worth of the timetable Guide to Trips by Train and Steamship (published in Tokyo by Kouinshinshisha). The third was an elderly scholar aiming for a manuscript of the Kokin Wakashu written by some poet from the Heian period called Fujiwara something-or-other. The fourth was the owner of Chitoseya, whose goal as a member of the Bedroom Investigation Commission was a book of smut written and illustrated by Katsushika Hokusai. And the fifth was the Chitoseya owner’s assistant, me. We donned our padded red coats and sat around the kotatsu. Before our eyes, in an old iron pot split with an S-shaped divider, red and white soups simmered. The smell wafting over nearly made my head explode. Unidentifiable fungi and vegetables steeped as the pot bubbled furiously like Hell’s cauldron. “This is what you call fire hot pot,” declared Rihaku, beaming at us from his chair. “Dip it in the dish of sesame oil at your places and eat up. It’s tasty!” Higuchi lifted a kettle as big as a watermelon and poured piping hot barley tea into everyone’s cups. All five of us downed it in one gulp. Following Rihaku’s orders, we each plucked a scrap of mystery meat from the red soup and crammed it into our mouths. The moment I began to chew, the world flashed purple and rippled. “Ugghyagh!” everyone screamed, unable to bear it. “What is this?!” The flavor spreading across our tongues could no longer be called a flavor—it was more like a blow from a roughly hewn club. It was so hot that it seemed as if every last bit of spiciness within a mile radius of Shimogamo Shrine had been gathered and boiled in this pot. In our agony, we reached for the hot barley tea, which only poured fuel on the flames. Rihaku smiled as he watched us writhe. It was decided that we’d take turns eating. When I let my guard down and thought maybe the white soup would rest my tongue, it was about as hot as the red one. At the peak of spiciness, ordinary people like ourselves couldn’t register the subtle difference between the two, so there was no reason to have the red and white soups separated from each other, apart from the cultural meaning of seeming “somewhat celebratory.” I was shedding globs of sweat in no time. At this rate, our lives will be in danger. Hurry up and surrender, I thought. I had zero intention of helping out the owner of Chitoseya in the first place. It goes without saying that my tiny reserve of patience was being tested from the moment we had to wear coats under the heated table. If Higuchi hadn’t mentioned a certain picture book, I would have been the first to wave the white flag. As we sat panting around the hot pot, Rihaku showed us the books from his collection one by one. When he got to the book each of the others was thinking of, it psyched them up. When the Hokusai-whatever came up, the owner of Chitoseya eyed me repeatedly. I had my hands full enduring the fire hot pot, so the Hokusai could stew in it for all I cared. There were all sorts of different books, some of them picture books. Eventually, Rihaku held up a picture book that made Higuchi go, “Oh?” He asked me, “Isn’t that the book that girl wanted?” as he took it from Rihaku and flipped through it. “Hey, Higuchi, don’t let any of your sweat fall on it!” he warned. “Look, there’s a name written here.” When I leaned over to take a look, it was the black-haired maiden’s name written in a terribly childish script. I’d like you to imagine how surprised I was to see that. I snatched the book out of his hands and lapped it up with my eyes. The moment Higuchi told me she’d been wandering the bookfair looking for this, I knew I had a once-in-a-lifetime chance in front of me. With hope for a dramatic comeback, my romance engine revved up once more. The crude scheme of reaching out for the same book now seemed laughable. That was about as roundabout as the butterfly effect—I’ll give it to any junior high kid with a crush for free. I concluded that true men had to face these things head-on. Right before my eyes was the very picture book that she innocently wrote her name in during her childhood. I imagined her face as a child. This picture book would have her fainting with nostalgia and was a unique and precious treasure, not to mention the one book that would unlock my future. Acquiring this book would be as good as grasping her girlish heart in my hand, which would be as good as grasping a rose-colored campus life, which would be as good as a guarantee of a glorious future everyone would envy. Any objections, ladies and gentlemen? If you do happen to have some, I refute them. I roared in pursuit of victory. The shower had ended, and golden rays of the sun set the wet riding ground ablaze. It didn’t seem like it was going to rain anymore. I figured that as long as I was here, I might as well stick around till the end, and I floated off once more in pursuit of more encounters with books. Mr. Higuchi had gone off to the secret sale in high spirits. I was sure he could overcome any difficulty unfazed. After all, his feet are never quite on the ground, he can call himself a tengu goblin. I couldn’t imagine any trial that would frustrate him. After I’d walked for a while, the pretty boy who’d helped me search through the picture books came up beside me. “Oh, hello again.” I bobbed my head. “Did you find Ra Ta Ta Tam?” “No, not yet. I tried asking a bookseller to help, but…” He stared me right in the nose and smiled. “Are you going to be here till the fair closes today?” “Yes, I’m planning to stick around.” “Then you’ll be fine. You’ll find it,” he said and then whistled. “How do you know that?” “Because I’m the God of Used Bookfairs,” he revealed, raising a beautiful pale arm and sticking up his pointer finger. He really did look like a god who had descended out of the freshly washed summer sky onto the muddy riding ground. I looked at him for a few moments and then prayed, “Namu-namu!” The boy grinned and ran off. “Namu-namu!” Higuchi whispered. “Namu-namu!” Apparently, it was a cheer to help him endure the pain. I copied him and groaned, “Namu-namu!” Everyone was dripping sweat as if they’d been hit with a bucket of water in the face, so all five of us glistened in the light of the candles and the hanging kotatsu—we must have looked like mucous newborn monsters. Beneath the padded coat, my clothes were sopping wet, so any move I made felt disgusting. Every time my turn came around and I had to pick at the hot pot, the heat filling my body grew even hotter, and my tongue burned. If I’d opened my mouth, fire would have come out. “All right, keep drinking that barley tea. If you don’t, you’ll die,” Rihaku sang as he sipped cold sake out of a glass. We had no choice but to grimace with rage and drink the hot tea. As we poured the liquid into our stomachs, it turned instantly into sweat and left our bodies, but death was certain if we stopped sweating. The first one to cry uncle was the owner of Chitoseya. He shrieked, “I just can’t,” and crawled over to Rihaku’s feet. Then he splashed ice water on his face for some relief. The Bedroom Investigation Commission’s obscene dreams were thwarted all too soon. “Wimp,” said the student from the Keifuku Electric Railroad Research Society. The owner of Chitoseya was catching his breath with a wet towel over his face, and he waved another towel at me with a look that said, It’s up to you now. But I was already pushing ahead toward my own goal; I had no interest in the smutty Hokusai book. “One down.” The elderly scholar wrung the words out of his throat. It was a melancholy voice, what one might use to count corpses. The area around his mouth was so red from the chili peppers that it looked as if he had lipstick on, which was just dreadful, but the same went for all of us. The venue was already dimly lit, but the heat made me lightheaded and the hot pot was so spicy that my field of vision was shrinking. I couldn’t really see very well at this point. The Keifuku Electric Railroad Research Society student suddenly started snapping his chopsticks in the air in front of him as if he was trying to catch something. “What the heck?! There’s a rainbow streamer flying around here! It’s in the way!” “It’s been doing that for some time, you know,” Higuchi shot back. “I can see it, too,” confirmed the elderly scholar. “That’s a hallucination, everyone. Be careful.” That’s what I said, but then I saw a rainbow streamer whirling above the hot pot. It twisted and rippled, fluttering around making fools of the four of us. No matter how many times we reached for it with our chopsticks, we couldn’t catch it. We decided this object wasn’t an issue worth worrying about at the moment. “Hey, old man, you’re not drinking any tea!” Keifuku Electric Railroad said. “You’re gonna die!” We figured now was our chance but kept an eye out for him by forcing him to drink the hot barley tea. After he finished gulping it down, his lips twisted up, and he grumbled something or other. Just as I was thinking he was reciting a Chinese poem to forget the pain, he let out a wail. His tears overflowed and mingled with his sweat, dribbling continuously from his chin. “Dammit, why should I have to go through this?” He gritted his teeth and growled. “Hurry up and surrender, you guys. It’s a request from an old man who won’t live much longer.” “You can’t take books to the netherworld,” Higuchi reminded him. “No. I intend to take them with me as a souvenir.” “Hold on now—it’ll be trouble for me if you cross the great divide right here,” said Rihaku. “You guys are after fluff. I’m aiming for a national treasure!” “Mine is national-treasure level, too, old man!” “That dingy timetable, a national treasure? Don’t be stupid! Go get one from the train company!” That set off a fire-breathing exchange of insults that taxed our burned tongues. Yes, I participated, too. I was so confused from the heat and the spiciness, I hardly had any idea what I was saying. In the end, the elderly scholar sobbed, “What’s your deal? What are you here for?” When he found out I was going for a picture book, he seemed as if he was going to faint. “You nincompoop!” he shrieked. “I’ll buy you as many picture books as you want!” “A national treasure won’t open my path!” I shouted. The elderly man yowled, “It’s a manuscript! Do you not understand? It’s a handwritten manuscript of the Kokin Wakashu!” “Coconut-walk-a-shoe? Like I know what that is!” I read a bit of the Iwanami Bunko Kokin Wakashu among other things as I walked through the fair until I came upon a creepy-looking bookstore. The tent was surrounded by huge bookshelves, so it was very dark inside. To my surprise, the one keeping watch over the shop was the woman who’d been so absorbed in the collected works of Sakunosuke Oda. She was sitting at the table on the other side of the register. The bookstore was constructed in a strange way, with a narrow passage of books leading off from the checkout area. A hot wind seemed to be blowing a fishy odor from deep inside it. I wonder where this passage leads. This curiosity spurred me toward my unceasing exploration of the world, which expanded and grew with each subsequent experience. I’ll go right in! That’s what I’ll do! But at that moment, the woman said, “I would think twice about that if I were you.” I felt as if I had been scolded and looked at her timidly. She wore a broad, elegant smile. “It’s not the sort of place you should enter.” There were no other customers in the store, so perhaps she was bored. She offered me a little chair and took a couple bottles of Ramune soda out of the foam box at her feet. There’s nothing better than a Ramune soda at a used bookfair in midsummer, so I gratefully accepted the bottle. “I saw you earlier on the bench. You’ve been reading that all day, huh?” I pointed at the book in her hand. “Yes, this is the only book at my house,” she admitted. “Of all my husband’s books, this is the only one I kept.” I talked to her about things like Gerald Durrell and Ra Ta Ta Tam. As I spoke of the book I couldn’t seem to unearth in this vast used-book world, I began to feel dejected again. By coincidence, she happened to have heard of Ra Ta Ta Tam. “My son fell in love with that book at first sight when my husband took him to a used bookfair for the first time. I’ve read it to him so many times. He begged me to read it to him even after he could read it for himself.” “Do you still have it?” “Unfortunately not…,” she murmured and looked at her Ramune bottle next to the register. It seemed there was some sorrowful circumstance that an outsider like me would never be able to guess. I refrained from asking any more. The Keifuku Electric Railroad Research Society student hung his head, at a loss before the fire hot pot. He moaned as globs of sweat fell audibly into his lap. We figured this was our chance and chanted “Drop out! Drop out!” in unison. If the others didn’t give up soon, I wouldn’t be able to hold out. I was enduring the pain through sheer willpower, and Higuchi through some hidden talent, but the elderly scholar had used up so much energy on futile anger that he was out of breath. Keifuku Electric Railroad’s angular face was bright red. He raised and lowered his chopsticks several times, but his hand shook, and he couldn’t bring himself to plunge them into the pot. Mind and body were fighting a fierce battle. “I can’t… I’ve felt awful for a while now…” An agonized expression appeared on his face. “I have a weak stomach…” “If you eat this hot pot, your stomach is going to end up like my briefs!” threatened Higuchi, who excelled at psychological manipulation. He followed up with “Do you want to die?” “No, I don’t want to diiiie,” Keifuku Electric Railroad practically whined. “But I want iiiit!” “It’s not worth wagering your stomach. You’re still young. You’ll have plenty of other chances.” The poor guy groaned and finally dropped out. With a face as brick red as the Kintetsu trains, he chased the rainbow streamer racing before us and departed for a mirage—all aboard! Farewell, rival, I thought. At first, Higuchi wore an unwavering enigmatic smile, but it now occasionally reminded me of the puckered-up expression of Japanese Noh masks as he exhaled hot air. How long could he keep his feet off the ground in the face of this physical torture? The two losers were collapsed beneath the red demon masks with wet towels over their faces. They looked like a pair of corpses. “All right, gentlemen. If two more of you drop out, one of you can make one of my books yours. Hang in there a little longer,” encouraged Rihaku, chomping on a big slice of watermelon. “Or how about this? I have some ice-cold watermelon here. If you want to have some, just surrender.” He waved a slice of the bright-red watermelon in front of us as we panted in the heat. I could practically feel the moist chill and brilliant sweetness of it in my cheeks. “You can have as much as you want. It’s juicy and sweet! Wouldn’t you like to give up on your book and have cold, refreshing watermelon instead?” The three of us around the hot pot roared in our attempts to fend off the devilish temptation. As Rihaku bit into another slice, I could see sharp fangs. Horns sprouted from his forehead. His face in the flickering candlelight looked exactly like the king of demons. “They’re just bundles of paper,” he cackled. “Which is more precious to you: that stuff or cold, refreshing watermelon?” When I heard myself scream that I chose my glorious future over the watermelon before me, it sounded like someone else’s voice. Thoughts about my shining future whirled before my eyes like the shadows from a revolving lantern: handing her the picture book; the two of us, hearts growing closer; meeting alone for the first time; holding hands on the grounds of a shrine. By the time colors of fall were dyeing Kyoto, our relationship would be established, and our feelings would deepen along with the winter. Finally, Christmas Eve would arrive. No one could stop my romance engine any longer. And I no longer lent an ear to my inner voice of reason. “Heh-heh-heh-heh.” The elderly scholar smirked, drooling. His voice brought me back to reality with a start, and I saw Higuchi mumbling something about a trip around the world with a dreamy look in his eyes. Apparently, all three of us had been watching the revolving lantern show; we undoubtedly had one foot in the river of the afterlife. We shouted encouragements to one another and gulped down barley tea. “Old man, we’re already gambling with death at this point,” said Higuchi. “You must be able to see it already…the netherworld…” “Didn’t I tell you…? I want a souvenir to take with me…” “Your heart probably can’t take this stress. Are you really okay with ending your life over some hot pot?” The elderly man gritted his teeth and held out against Higuchi’s psychological attack. “No one will…care if I…die… So what’s it to me?” “I admire that spirit,” Rihaku observed. “Then go to the afterworld. I’ll settle everything if you do.” “You can’t die, old man!” Higuchi croaked. “Not here!” But the elderly man didn’t reply. He slowly fell forward, and I hurried to catch him. He was gone. “Only two left now.” Rihaku smiled in satisfaction. “But wow, it sure is hot in here. Reminds me of Hell.” I talked with the woman for a while over some soda—it tasted like water from heaven. All of a sudden, we heard a groan from a gap in the books piled up behind the checkout area. “Direct communication between minds mrrfle-mrrf.” Someone was talking in their sleep. The woman turned around. Behind her, a man in black glasses was curled up sleeping among stacks of books. I wondered why he’d nap in such a cramped space with no futon. Did being surrounded by used books put him at ease? “Please let my husband rest a little longer. Our son will be here soon,” she said kindly. The man, sound asleep, grunted like a happy pig and rolled to face away from us. She smiled at me and said, “He must be having a good nap.” I finished my soda, thanked her, and stood up. She saw me off to the front of the shop. “I’m sure you’ll find Ra Ta Ta Tam very soon,” she reassured, gazing out at the falling dusk. “Let’s have faith in the God of Used Bookfairs.” “Thank you.” I bowed and set off walking. “Namu-namu!” I whispered. The battle had reached its final stage: single combat between Higuchi and me. We had to take turns picking at the hot pot, so we were always eating. The ingredients simmered to the point that they were falling apart, and all our chopsticks caught was debris that had transformed into spiciness incarnate. My mouth was numb, and so was my soul. Barley tea went in and came out as aqueous sweat, streaming down like a waterfall. The sopping-wet padded coats weighed on our shoulders. We had turned into perpetual endurance machines. Our only goal was to defeat the hot pot before us. “Are you going to give that picture book to the girl? Do you have a crush on her?” “That’s right. What about it?” “How about this? First, you give up. I’ll get the picture book. Then you buy it from me for five hundred thousand yen.” “There’s something wrong with that… Wait a minute, wait a minute. You’re the only one who benefits there.” “What?! Isn’t it a steal to buy a glorious future for five hundred thousand yen?” “I’m not taking any favors from you. I’m fired up about something for once…both physically and mentally. I’m going to win this fight and seize my future with my own two hands!” “My good sir, even a man as formidable as I has limits,” said Higuchi, laughing. “Look at this hallucination I’ve started to see.” He reached into the hot pot with his chopsticks and pulled out a huge toad. The toad was puffy and bright red with chili peppers and all manner of secret ingredients. Its legs twitched minutely. Eventually, it escaped from Higuchi’s chopsticks and scrambled around atop the kotatsu. It squatted in front of me and opened its mouth wide. Flames came spouting out of its gaping jaws. “Kill him!” laughed Higuchi. “Burn him up!” I scowled at the toad for a time and then reached into the hot pot myself. My chopsticks caught something that felt like a heavy rope, so I pulled it out. Out of the iron pot rose a python covered in chili peppers. With its tail still in the pot, there was no way of knowing how long it was. The snake lowered its head onto the heated table. Higuchi’s toad sputtered red as it tried to hop wetly away, but the snake swallowed it whole. Then it sluggishly rested its chin on the lip of the pot. When I looked up at Higuchi, he had a smile plastered on. I could see each drop of sweat rolling down his face. He didn’t move a muscle, even when the sweat got in his eyes and mouth. When I gave him a poke, he maintained the exact same expression and fell over backward. It was a dignified end, bearing a striking resemblance to the standing death of Musashibo Benkei. My head was swimming. I felt as if flames were going to burst out of both my mouth and my ass. The rainbow streamer flew around my head, and I couldn’t see anything. I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I thought, and I drank barley tea. I hurled the hot-water bottle away and took off the sopping-wet coat. It made a wet splat when it landed on the carpet. “Bravo!” Rihaku stood up out of his cane chair with a huge smile. He flourished his fan. I sank to the ground. When he approached me, the chili-pepper-covered python poking its head out of the fire hot pot turned toward him and flapped its jaws. I heard a tiny voice. “What?” When Rihaku leaned an ear toward it in amusement, the snake said the following in a withered voice: “Sometimes, cruelly, god releases used books into the world. Imprudent collectors, beware!” Rihaku looked at the snake like What the hell? as it bit into his yukata. He whacked it in the head with his fan before shrieking, “You bastard! You bastard!” and something large fell from the ceiling. It was one of the things physically raising the room’s temperature, the kotatsu chandelier. “Waagh!” As we were screaming beneath the fallen kotatsu, a triumphant voice rang out. “So we meet again.” When I looked toward the sound, I saw that pretty boy standing next to Rihaku’s black-lacquer bookcase. All the books had disappeared. The boy was cradling the Keifuku Electric Railroad Research Society student’s Duralumin trunk. “Well then, everyone, good day.” He made a splendid leap over Rihaku, who was moaning after being hit square in the head by the table, and eluded my arms as I tried to grab him. Then he booted the defeated contestants out of his way and raced out of the room like a little trickster. “Give me my future back!” I cried. I tried to get up, but I knocked over the fire hot pot instead. Rihaku finally crawled out from under the kotatsu, but I was in too much pain to stand and was busy dunking my face in ice water repeatedly to lower my body temperature. He looked at his little black-lacquer bookcase. One thin booklet remained. It was the volume given to him by the woman in Japanese dress. He picked it up and frowned at the cover. I finally managed to stand up and joined him in his examination. When he opened the traditionally bound volume, the inside was white paper. It was just page after page of thin blank paper. The Daruma doll–shaped heater before our eyes began to sing. Eventually, as if it were written in heat-sensitive ink, a string of characters appeared on its pages. What an unending delight it is to liberate books from villainous collectors. Repent now, for I am the God of Used Bookfairs. Rihaku approached a window and raised its black curtain. As each of the windows was opened in turn, the evening breeze blew in, as invigorating as a highland wind. As it flowed through the room, the people lying on the carpet began to move around. He stood right in the middle of them as they squirmed. “Gentlemen,” he addressed them. “The books for which you abandoned both pride and appearances were just now released by the God of Used Bookfairs to the fair. If you’re lucky, you may encounter them again someday.” Unable to process that information, everyone sat dazed on the red carpet. “I’ll pray for your luck. This is the end of today’s event.” Rihaku brought the sale to a close. After a little while, the face of the elderly scholar sitting on the red carpet flushed, and he shouted, “So it’s out there somewhere in the bookfair? Yes, I see,” and practically tripped over himself racing out of the room. The owner of Chitoseya and the Keifuku Electric Railroad Research Society student followed closely after him. Higuchi was the only one who stood leisurely, said, “Phew, I’m full,” and walked off seeming satisfied. He apparently thought getting a meal was a plus, even if it was a hellish fire hot pot. “Though I do feel like flames are about to shoot out of my ass.” He walked away clenching his butt. “This is the only book I can offer you,” Rihaku said, holding out the traditionally bound volume, but I declined. “Are you fine with your books being stolen like that?” I asked. “It was the work of the God of Used Bookfairs, so there’s nothing I can do about it. I had my fun.” Rihaku scoffed. “Books? I’ll give you as many as you want.” I left Rihaku and found my way through the long, eerie corridor of bookshelves. When I exited into the dark bookstore, I noticed the proprietor with the black glasses had fallen out of his chair, asleep and snoring up a storm. Ramune soda bottles were scattered next to him. I want soda! my throat cried. I broke into a run and saw the fair was bathed in indigo dusk. I was amazed that summer in Kyoto could feel this cool. This was the first day I was ever moved to tears by a mere change in temperature. My sweat, which was pure water by now, evaporated instantaneously in the evening breeze. Another summer day was ending. Some small groups were heading home, but there were still many people sticking around. I ran through the fair looking for that boy. On the way, my throat got so dry I couldn’t bear it any longer, so I stopped to buy a Ramune soda. Ramune is like all the refreshing parts of summer concentrated into one delicious flavor. This was the first day I was ever moved to tears by a mere soda. Crying, drinking, choking, I ran through the fair. I saw a familiar-looking woman in Japanese dress. She was sitting on a bench, and though it was getting dark, she persevered with her reading of the complete works of Sakunosuke Oda. Glinting next to her was what looked to be the Duralumin trunk, but it was empty. When I came up on the shop called Ryokuudo, with my attention finally sharpened by the evening breeze, I caught sight of the boy. I slipped quietly through the shadows of the bookcases. You malevolent, incorrigible obstructer of love—you demonic criminal! I snarled. I’ll wrap you in a straw mat, light you up, and have a bonfire by the Kamo River. In the shadows of a bookshelf, he opened one of the books he was carrying and stuck a price tag on it. Then he slipped it onto the shelf. “Hey!” I yelled. “You little jerk!” When I grabbed his arm, he jumped like a white river fish. He glared up at me as he tried to escape. His eyes seemed to gleam in the darkness. “Let me go! I only have one book left.” “You already scattered the rest?” I was astounded and felt the strength drain from my body. “Was there a picture book? What happened to that picture book?” When my grip loosened, the boy started to run, but then he stopped for just a moment. “Picture books go in the picture book spot. Don’t you even know that much?” With that, he disappeared into the twilight. I remembered what Higuchi had said. Somewhere, there was a picture book corner. The shopkeeper at Ryokuudo happened to be nearby, so I asked him where it was and set off running. As I sprinted through the fair, I saw the Keifuku Electric Railroad Research Society student. “My timetables!” he wailed, getting nasty looks as he ran from bookstore to bookstore. “Where are you?” No sooner had I heard his voice than a figure shoved past me running south like a great gust of wind. It appeared to be that elderly scholar who was fixated on the Kokin Wakashu. “It’s mine. No one else must…,” he mumbled as if he were possessed, and he disappeared into the crowd. Obsession is a terrible thing, I thought, purposely shoving happy couples out of my way as I raced with an ogreish grimace on my face toward the picture book corner. The used bookfair was definitely starting to radiate that postfestival feel. For some reason, I felt awfully sad, and I trudged along the riding ground. That mysterious boy said I would encounter Ra Ta Ta Tam, and that woman in Japanese dress said the same thing, encouraging me. But the sun was going down, and how was I supposed to find it in this ocean of books? Would the God of Used Bookfairs smile down on me? I just walked quietly. From now on, I’ll make sure to pray to the God of Used Bookfairs. And if I’m not reading a book anymore, I’ll release it back into the world for the next person. I’ll put in the effort so my books can live again. So please, God. I put my palms together and said, “Namu-namu.” Passing by tents as they sank into the dusk, I reached the picture book corner. I’d looked pretty hard earlier, but on the off chance I might have missed it… The one who believes will find their book! As it grew darker, I carefully scanned the thin spines. “Namu-namu,” I was whispering, leaning in, when suddenly a picture book called out to me, glimmering white in one corner of the bookshelf. My heart beat so hard it hurt. Namu-namu! Entranced, I reached out, and from beside me, another hand stretched out. When I looked up, I saw my clubmate. When he saw me, he seemed genuinely surprised and had a funny look on his face. He was working his mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out. Finally, he took a breath and said, “Look!” pointing at Ra Ta Ta Tam. “Better grab it quick!” When I picked up the book, he ran off like the wind. I wondered why he’d been so shocked. Was there something weird about my face? No, since he was reaching for the book as well, I figured he must have really wanted it, too. Perhaps it’d broken his heart to yield it to me, and he quickly withdrew to ease the pain of abandoning his beloved book? That must be it. What an incredibly gentlemanly thing to do! God, please forgive me for obstructing my clubmate’s path to love. I really owe him now! With those thoughts in my mind, I opened the copy of Ra Ta Ta Tam. When I saw what was written on the inside front cover, I was shocked, but eventually, I danced like a bipedal robot. I wiped the corners of my eyes. Inside Ra Ta Ta Tam, in crude handwriting, was my own name. You don’t even have to tell me, wise readers—I know. I’m an incorrigible idiot. I scrapped my overly roundabout plan and started fresh with a better one. But I never thought my rejected plan would just happen on its own. God of Used Bookfairs, this is different from what we’d discussed in our meeting! There was no way I could react appropriately. Due to my half-assed preparation, another thing I hadn’t expected was how unbearably embarrassing it was to reach out for the same book. How did it look to her when I ran off? I’m sure she thought I was an incomprehensible weirdo bastard. “Know shame and perish!” As I raced through the chilly night, I groaned. “Namu-namu!” I cursed myself, I cursed the used bookfair, and after sulking to the max, I entered a tent illuminated by the orangey glow of a lantern. They were selling The Newly Collected Works of Hyakken Uchida in loose volumes. “I’ll take all of these!” I shouted, then stamped in frustration when I realized I didn’t have enough money. “How much more do you need?” a voice asked from behind me. I turned to look and found her standing there. “I’ll lend it to you.” “No, I’d feel bad.” “It’s fine. A chance meeting with a book is once in a lifetime. You have to buy it right in the moment. And I already found what I was looking for,” she rejoiced, showing me the gorgeous snow-white picture book. The title was Ra Ta Ta Tam: The Strange Story of a Little Engine, and it had beautiful, fantastical illustrations. Then she showed me the inside of the cover. On the pure-white paper was her name in a childish scrawl. “I can’t believe I found it here. I’m so grateful. Thank you for letting me have it.” Her cheeks curved in a happy smile. I borrowed money from her and purchased the collected works of Hyakken Uchida. After packing the books into plastic bags, I turned around, but she was gone. I left the tent and scanned the dark fairground but only saw people coming and going in the indigo twilight. Then I sauntered off. After lending money to my clubmate, I wandered out of the tent. As I was standing there absentmindedly, I saw the lady in Japanese dress who’d been reading the collected works of Sakunosuke Oda pass by with that pretty little boy. “Are you happy now?” she asked him, and he nodded. “Yeah.” I thought to tell the boy I found Ra Ta Ta Tam and went after them, but the pair wound their way through the crowd and disappeared into the night like magic. A pity. I sat on a bench and opened up Ra Ta Ta Tam again in my lap. It was such a mystery to find this book that I’d loved and then criminally abandoned now back in my hands again. What else could it be but the work of the God of Used Bookfairs? Namu-namu. Night was finally falling. After a while, my clubmate came thumping along with his bags of collected works. It looked so heavy, I offered to help him carry them. “Hey,” he said. “Hi,” I said. The books must have been as heavy as a pickling stone; he set them down with an oof and sat on the bench. The sky was already a deep navy, and the faint vestiges of sunset stained the floating clouds pink. Orange lanterns were lit here and there at the bookstores along the riding ground. Though the whole area was dark, as if sunken to the bottom of the sea, people swam from shelf to shelf, relying on what little light was left, searching for the books they pined for. Just as I did a little while ago. “Everyone looks like fish at the bottom of the sea,” I said. “Yeah,” he said. A cool evening breeze blew from the north, and a rainbow streamer glided past us.