In my lodgings at the base of Mount Hiei, I was hugging my electric heater close for warmth like an old-fashioned hibachi. December had arrived, and the long-fallen autumn foliage of Higashiyama had taken to the wind. The cold of Kyoto would soon reach its penetrating peak, and my squalid residence made a poor fortress to resist General Winter’s siege. I was at a distinct disadvantage in this end-of-year confrontation.
I stood and pulled a hefty document storage box from the bookshelf occupying one entire wall of the tiny room. Inside was a thick stack of A4-size paper, words populating each and every page. These were the fruits of my great labors. They represented night after night of clacking away on my keyboard, often in lieu of meals or baths. For a great deal of time now, I had been engaged in a detailed study of Mizuo and all her activities.
The contents of the box represented fourteen full reports, spanning a length equivalent to two hundred and forty typical four-hundred-character pages—a grand treatise by any measure. Once, a great portion of my day had been dedicated to the analysis of genetically engineered crops at my erstwhile lab. Now that time was fully redirected to this ardent study of Mizuo. And that may, admittedly, have contributed to my extended leave of absence from school. But let us set that detail aside for now.
The information I had amassed on Mizuo was multifaceted, collected via careful observation and wild speculation. And I’d masterfully recorded it all in these fourteen works of absolute literary genius.
A year ago, in the cold of that previous December, the reports had still been quite lacking. I required a great deal of time yet to bolster them to a satisfactory degree of completion. But just as I resolved to redouble my efforts, I was issued a unilateral cease and desist by Mizuo herself.
It was an unfortunate turn of events, but I did not lose heart. My conscience would not allow me to abandon such a noble pursuit after I’d already committed myself. And thanks to my great capacity for research, investigation, and fancy, I was perfectly capable of continuing even in the absence of Mizuo’s cooperation. I began to pore over every intermittent text message exchanged between us. I secured opportunities to observe her in the wild, both on and off campus.
Of course, it goes without saying that this research fulfilled a secondary purpose. Namely, it allowed me to explore exactly why she had rejected an individual of my caliber. But I assure you, this benefit was entirely incidental.
Long ago, I’d been possessed by the delusion that I was in love. I was no longer in control of the man downstairs. The reins slipped from my hands and it reduced me to a shameful state. I’m sure I made for a very sorry sight to anyone who happened across me at the time.
But I eventually recognized my folly. I saw that allowing myself to be driven by ridiculous notions like love and self-pity were obstructing my ability to conduct calm, rational research, and I quickly severed the emotional bonds that had coiled themselves about me. I finally saw that, to me, Mizuo was not an object of affection. Rather, she was a puzzle. She was one curiosity of many that would dot the road on my journey through life. And as an intellectual, it was only natural for me to express interest and to attempt to unravel her mystery.
Ergo, my present line of research was completely and fundamentally unrelated to the distasteful modern criminal behavior known as stalking. Please allow me to make that point very clear.
✦ ✦ ✦
Among the reports tucked away in the hefty document storage box was a set of seven A4-size pages strung together with cellophane tape, such that they expanded and collapsed like a folding screen. On these pages was a record of Mizuo’s typical daily activities. Each page represented a different day of the week, and my notes were arranged by hour from morning to night. I’d discovered that the life of a diligent college student is very consistent: A quick glance at this document, coupled with some guesswork, was sufficient to determine Mizuo’s approximate whereabouts at any given moment. This seven-page spread had proven itself an indispensable tool on countless occasions, and I referenced it whenever a sudden need to observe her arose.
The present day was a Tuesday. Her fourth-period lecture would conclude just before evening, and after that, she would in all likelihood stop by the student co-op bookstore to peruse the shelves before heading home. On occasion, she would purchase a new volume to add to her collection. She also sometimes went by the supermarket to pick up a few perishables. Other digressions were rare, as even now in her third year, the demands of her foreign language course nagged at her like a stubborn debt collector. She required ample time at home to study and prepare for the following day’s lesson.
I checked the clock. It was just before four in the afternoon. Class would be ending in approximately half an hour. Waiting at the bookstore was the obvious course of action.
I began my preparations with gusto, first carefully stretching all my muscle groups. I practiced rapid sidestepping—a remarkably beneficial type of training for those times one needs to duck quickly out of sight.
To be clear, I did not fear being spotted by Mizuo per se. It was simply preferable that I not have any direct contact with my target, to ensure that my observations remained completely impartial.
Once the blood was flowing and my body was limbered up, I grabbed the luxurious scarf that my aunt in Ashiya had sent in a surge of pity at my purportedly half-frozen state. I swept its ends gallantly about my neck and shoulders and headed out into the cold.