A high-pitched metallic whine shattered the nighttime air. I perked up, tilting an ear in an attempt to identify the source. A dotted trail of streetlights revealed the way ahead, but I saw nothing among their soft white platters of light able to generate such a noise. In fact, I saw nothing at all that would disturb the still of night. I was alone on an expanse of frigid asphalt, the remnants of each breath I exhaled extending up and away like steam from a locomotive’s chimney.
Then, at a crossroads in the distance, I spotted it. The Eizan. It entered the intersection from the left and headed away to my right, its windows glittering in the dark.
I bolted forward, running with every bit of strength I had. I skidded to the right at the crossroads, then turned down alleyway after alleyway, pursuing the train by sound. Several times, the screech of the wheels grew close only to fall away again. I envisioned myself as one giant ear, sensitive to the tiniest noise, as I desperately sought the Eizan among the network of narrow streets. I sped down one lane, turned onto another, twisted and wove my way through the neighborhood until I realized I was at the condemned building from the other day. This was the site of my humiliating second encounter with Endou, when I’d been obliged to deliver lunch to him and his crew.
A harsh, drawn-out screech and a hiss echoed from the courtyard on the opposite side. Shortly afterward, there was silence. The train seemed to have come to a stop.
I peeked down the tiny alleyway at the side of the condemned building. There seemed to be a hazy, gently swaying light at the far end, but I couldn’t be sure.
After checking my surroundings, ascertaining that I was alone and unseen, I began to creep down the alleyway. It was still littered with junk and all the more difficult to traverse in the dark.
After what seemed like an eternity spent carefully feeling my way forward, I emerged into the courtyard, where I discovered an old, canopied station building.
A shrill bell rang, announcing the train’s imminent departure. The sound reverberated across the station’s domed ceiling, and I sprinted, barreling through a polished wooden ticket gate and down the length of a timeworn brick wall.
The boarding platform was empty. There were no station attendants or other passengers in sight. But the old, two-car Eizan sat waiting, doors ajar, and I threw myself inside.
The doors slid shut with a hiss, and the bell ceased to ring, its final echo trapped, ever wandering, in the station’s canopy. And then, the Eizan began to roll forward.
I let out a sigh, settling down into one of the soft bench seats.
✦ ✦ ✦
The train made its way through sleeping Kyoto. In the dark, the windows were mirrors. My own face stared back at me, illuminated by the carriage lights. Only when I pressed up close to the glass could I faintly make out the city’s packed rows of houses, highlighted by the occasional lonely streetlight. I realized we were nearing Saginomori. The houses fell away in favor of aged stone walls so close I could have reached out and touched them. Treetops peeked up over the walls, their branches brushing against the carriage windows and generating a constant, gentle rustling as we made our way forward.
The walls abruptly ended, replaced by a lengthy canal. I realized that to anyone standing on the far bank, I would appear as she had to me. It occurred to me that Mizuo must be traveling on this very train each night, heading off somewhere as yet unknown.
Now the Eizan was snaking its way through the dense forest surrounding the Shugakuin Imperial Villa. For a time, I could make out nothing beyond the windows.
Then, without warning, night turned to day. The carriage’s lamps flickered out, and sunlight rushed into the car. I felt warm, and I entrusted myself to the calming, regular ka-clack of the railway. I peered outside and found the train now surrounded by verdant green. We were speeding along between the thick, heavy trunks of a thicket awash with moist, fresh growth.
The train slowed and slid to a stop at a small, unattended station, whose platform was a lonely island of concrete among the trees. The doors lurched open, and all fell silent, as if frozen solid. I continued to sit on the bench for a moment, gazing at the gaping door. Finally, a distant birdcall roused me to my feet.
Light filtered through the leaves of the surrounding thicket, giving the concrete platform a mottled appearance that shifted ever so slightly with each passing breath of wind. The entire length of the platform was bare, save for a single plastic bench. There were no advertisements for the local otolaryngologist or payday lender. There was no old timetable, its digits smeared from years spent under rain and sun. There wasn’t even a smoking area or standing ashtray.
The final observation had me patting my pockets. I would have liked to stop for a quick smoke, but I’d left my cigarettes in my lodgings. I cursed the unfortunate oversight, then reconsidered. Perhaps it was for the best. She’d never been fond of the habit.
I descended from the platform and began to walk among the trees. Now that I was in motion, the air felt chill. I paused, and the gentle warmth of the sun seeped back into my skin. I resumed walking, and the chill wind again brushed playfully against my cheeks.
The trees were spaced well apart, such that I had no trouble passing through to the other end of the thicket. When I emerged, I found myself staring across a wide meadow, its perimeter lined with an uninterrupted ring of trees. I had the sense that I was standing on the edge of a vast, shallow dish filled to its brim with cool liquid.
I made my way down into the meadow, feeling as if I were wading through that unknown liquid. There was no sound aside from the crisp crunch of grass beneath my shoes. After a while, I began to whistle softly to myself.
In the center of the meadow, I spotted a familiar bookcase. It was a birthday gift I’d purchased for Mizuo; the two of us had lugged the thing from the furniture store all the way to her apartment. I’m sure it must have been a comical sight to passersby, the bookcase stretched out lengthwise between us as we cut down and across Higashioji Street.
I approached the bookcase, finding on the shelves a small yet respectable collection: Shugoro Yamamoto, Junichiro Tanizaki, and a copy of The Tale of Genji. I picked up the first volume of Genji and began to flip through its pages, then returned it to the shelf in bitter shame. I recalled the many times I’d felt a burst of inspiration to finally sit down and read the work in its entirety—all the way up through the ten quires of Uji—only to fizzle out well before the halfway mark.
I looked at my feet and was startled to find a maneki-neko on the ground—this one a high-tech, solar-powered model with an automatic waving arm. The sun’s gentle rays caressed the cat, and it waved back happily at the world. Or perhaps the enthusiastic motions of its paw were meant to mock me. I wasn’t sure which. Maybe both, and the mockery was its source of enjoyment.
I sighed and turned away.
Rising above the sea of distant trees was the Tower of the Sun. As usual, it appeared a full size larger than I remembered. The Tower is eternally great. That’s the only description it will ever need.
I reflected to myself that of course the Tower would be here. Of course she’d continued to revere it all this time. She was smitten with it. How could she not be?
I bowed my head and remained like that for a time, as if offering a silent prayer. I knew the implications. This was the conduct of one who knew he stood in the presence of something greater. It was the display of a man who knew it was time to admit defeat.