Several days passed. Shikama had promised to make some quiet inquiries among his peers, but I had no means to ascertain his progress or even confirm that he’d begun looking into the matter at all. Common sense would dictate that, by this point in time, he was playing the part of the dashing detective, a thrilling mystery unfolding about him. But again, I had no way of knowing. And since I do not endeavor to write upon matters of which I have no knowledge, I will not speculate further.
The present state of relations between my university and me meant that I was unable to step onto its grounds while the sun remained overhead. I am very fond of the autumn foliage of the North Campus’s gingko trees, but I’d been unable to observe it even once this past season.
In spite of my exile, I did not consider myself lonely. Loneliness is a thing born of a perverse desire to interact with the outside world. Consequently, by extinguishing desire, one is not obliged to suffer loneliness. I had no particular need of anything the university had to offer, and it appeared that the university wanted nothing from me. The only contact I’d had were notices regarding my unpaid tuition. Personally, I would have thought that the school might take a more active interest in wooing me back to campus. But I couldn’t very well go around looking like I was begging for attention. I’d only make a fool of myself. So I paid an indignant visit to my local branch of the Kyoto Shinkin Bank to initiate the transfer. The university accepted the generous gesture without demur, though I suppose that was also to be expected.
In absence of schooling, my typical day was structured around three primary activities: shifts at a sushi restaurant situated along Higashioji Street; hours spent at my lodgings engaged in reading or deep contemplation; and perusal of the city’s many used bookshops. Interspersed were other minor engagements, such as interactions with close acquaintances, continuation of my studies of Mizuo, and trips to the video rental shop. These wove together to form the fabric of my life.
If you were to inquire as to what sort of rarefied experiences punctuated my otherwise uneventful days—great or subtle, but providing some glimpse of the true mysteries of life—I would have to say that there are none. I can only say that, like most youth my age, I am coddled by modern civilization. And yet, once again a product of my generation, I also possess an intolerable callow pride. That is to say, I entertain the obnoxious belief that I am chosen for some higher calling. Alas, like most other young minds, I have no tangible proof to point to. My days are free of the wonders and woes that one might expect in the life of a figure of historical import.
You may then inquire as to the foundation of my hubris. On what do I base my belief that I possess the stuff of greatness? Quite frankly, I’d be grateful if you could tell me. But I’m certain that I do. Somewhere in the damp, dingy, uninviting darkness that is my life, there is a glittering jewel waiting to be unearthed.
And in any case, I much prefer the simple life. In my estimation, the greatest works are carried out quietly, in places far removed from fuss and fanfare. I am regrettably unable to point to any specific endeavor, but I do intend to manage some grand accomplishment within my lifetime. Something that will remain in the annals of world history. Until then, I insist upon excising all stormy vicissitudes from my days to ensure my success. Anything that could disturb my contemplations is most unwelcome. I wish to be left to my own devices. On those occasions that I begin to feel lonely, I only ask that the world briefly focus its attention upon me. That would be quite sufficient for my needs.
Sadly, it is the way of the world to snub you when you wish to be noticed and pester you to no end when you wish to be left alone.
✦ ✦ ✦
Whenever I was holed up in my lodgings, deep in thought, there was no end to the onslaught of interruptions. The doorbell would ring, and it would invariably be the NHK man trying to collect the month’s fees, or missionaries attempting to share the good word of their faith, or a suspicious character hoping for a response to some cryptic survey. I suppose every student occupying a let room is subjected to such nuisances.
For me, the greatest headaches of all were the visits paid by an individual named Yushima. He was two years behind me, putting him in the same graduating class as Mizuo. And he was also a member of that same certain university sports club. Yushima was a skinny, scrawny sort of man, liable to be carried away by a light breeze. His train of thought was opaque at best. Ghostlike might be a fitting overall description. In fact, I would argue he was as close to ghosthood as a living person can be.
Around the time I quit attending the club, I was in arrears. Because I had ceased to attend meetings, along with various other impediments, I unwittingly let quite some time pass without repayment. Eventually, Yushima, who had been appointed treasurer, began to pay me house calls with dogged persistence. My back was against the wall, so as any proper gentleman would, I dutifully scrounged up the cash to settle my debt.
Yet even after the debt was paid, Yushima continued to visit. He was apparently under the impression that I still carried a balance. I, on the other hand, was quite certain I’d paid the full amount. The man seemed to be suffering a misunderstanding. He was fundamentally mistaken. But whenever I told him as much, a smile like spring haze floated to his lips, and he insisted, “Well, see, the numbers just don’t add up…”
The issue thus remained unsettled. Eventually, I paid a visit to the club to inquire about Yushima’s behavior, only to be told by my underclassmen that Yushima was no longer attending.
From what I gathered, Yushima’s ghostlike nature was intensifying. He’d begun actively cultivating it in the early spring of his third year, ensuring that others failed to notice him when he was present and failed to notice his absence when he was not. It had gotten to the point that his friends weren’t certain whether he was alive or dead. They were unable to get ahold of him by text or phone and were becoming quite distressed. If Yushima intended to quit the club, there were procedures that had to be followed. His vanishing without a trace presented a headache for everyone involved.
“Next time Yushima stops by to see you,” they told me, “try to talk some sense into him, would you?”
And with that, they skillfully dropped their problem into my lap.
From that point on, every time the phantom bill collector appeared at my door, I tried my best to pull him back to reality. However, given that I also tended to navigate life in a rather detached fashion, floating in fantasy some thirty centimeters above the ground, my ability to be persuasive on this matter was somewhat limited. The more I tried to convince Yushima of the error of his ways, the more concerned I became that I, too, was inhabiting the same ghostly world—and that this was precisely the reason he had latched on to me. The possibility filled me with horror.
Common wisdom holds that misery enjoys a bedfellow, but I must vehemently protest. I refuse to associate myself with Yushima’s psychosis.
To elaborate, Yushima appeared to have largely surrendered himself to the clutches of self-loathing. If he simply hated himself outright, that would be one thing. But his brand of flagellation was more reserved, and nothing in this world is more unpleasant to behold than an individual who cannot commit fully to his cause. Yushima’s attempts to collect on my imagined debt were always punctuated with fervent confessions of how thoroughly he despised himself.
These exchanges had become quite trying, even for someone as level-tempered as myself. If I was in a particularly good mood, I’d open the door and humor him. When I was not feeling so generous, I’d leave him standing in the hallway. After a while, he’d begin to mumble lines from the “Railway Song.” I’d hear him on the other side of the door, plaintively crooning:
The To-ji pagoda is on the left.
The train is rolling in to Shichijo Station.
The conductor calls out “Kyoto! Kyoto!”
His voice is bright and dashing.
This is the city of a thousand years
standing proud since Kanmu’s reign!
When it inevitably got on my nerves, I’d counter with verses from the old school anthem:
The flowers blaze red on the distant hills
while the banks are filled with budding green!
I couldn’t begin to tell you what we were thinking.