When I reached the Hyakumanben intersection—located just in front of Kyoto University—I found it bustling with activity. Cars and pedestrians crowded every scrap of land, everyone scurrying on their way home. The pachinko parlor on the northwest corner blinked its incessant visual chaos. And above all the fuss gaped the early evening sky.
The university co-op bookstore faced Higashioji Street. It was the largest purveyor of texts on campus—and thus a place I knew well and frequented often.
I passed through the automatic sliding doors into the warm interior, remembering that it was here in this very shop that I began formulating my plans to inveigle Mizuo. I’d been standing in an aisle perusing a text when my eyes happened upon her. I was smitten, I suppose you would say, or however you prefer to term that embarrassing state of mental disarray.
Her typical visit to the bookstore was spent wandering among the shelves without a care, like a small, round cat making its way from one water dish to another. Here a sip, there a sip. Once she found a book that caught her interest, she became completely absorbed, her body a vacant husk as her soul flowed into the pages. It was a quality of hers that I suppose some might find truly enchanting.
Attempting to shake off the memory, I began walking from aisle to aisle, casually casting my gaze about the interior of the bookstore. Occasionally, I plucked some academic tome or other from the shelf, playing the part of the diligent young student. I was alert for any sign of Mizuo, careful to keep my wits about me. But it seemed she had yet to arrive at the shop. I checked my watch. It was not long past four. In all likelihood, she was still in class.
I continued to pick up books and flip through the pages, but I was oblivious to the contents. My mind continued to linger on the past. That’s not to say I was daydreaming. Waiting for Mizuo at the bookstore simply evoked a few unpleasant memories that I was forced to confront. It reminded me of the time I’d spent writhing in unproductive worry before our relationship began.
I understand why it was necessary for me to pass through that adolescent stage, puerile as it was. But as someone with an admittedly sensitive disposition, I am unable to think back on those days without risking my composure.
And sure enough, I felt a wave of red assaulting my cheeks there in the bookstore. My hands were still cold from the ride over, so I brought them to my face to douse the flames. I chanted quietly from the Heart Sutra, “Go, go across to the other bank!”
And just then, as I stood mumbling to myself and with hands at my cheeks like a shy schoolgirl, someone called out to me.
“What on earth are you doing?”
It was not Mizuo, but rather another former club mate—Lady Uemura.
✦ ✦ ✦
Privately, I had nicknamed Lady Uemura “the Evil Eye.” In twenty-four years on this earth, I had never known another gaze as terrifying as hers. In fact, one of my seventeen personal mantras read, Let not thy pride be so fragile as to crumble under harsh glare. Yet Lady Evil Eye always managed to pulverize my pride with astonishing ease.
When our club spent weekends at overnight training camps, my own circle of associates would typically find a corner away from the rest of the group, where we would wrap ourselves up in whimsical contemplations—a noble art in which we were all quite versed.
Dried squid snacks were our typical fare during these sessions, and one of our number insisted on “cooking” each strip with his cigarette lighter immediately prior to consumption. The aroma of burnt squid and male body odor permeated our vicinity, woven together in beautiful olfactory harmony. I’m sure I needn’t elaborate for you to understand how very pleasant it was. And the heady scent only excited us further, sending our fantasies spiraling off at a frenetic pace, dragging us with them to a completely unfettered mental state.
Enter Lady Evil Eye.
With one brief glance, our piled mountain of contemplation would come crashing down in an instant. A second glare ground the resulting rubble so thoroughly that it evaporated into thin air. How is one to maintain any shred of pride in the face of such hegemony? Under the harsh light of Lady Uemura’s eyes, we were but shy maidens of fourteen in the Taisho Era. Each of us grew meeker than the most timid lamb.
I had a great hatred for that stare of hers and the way it left my compatriots and me in a state of abject cowardice. That hatred had in turn prompted me to devise the private moniker. However, the bestowing of such an alias in the secrecy of my mind had obviously had no effect on the lady herself.
I had often asked myself why her gaze held such power over us. It was true that Lady Uemura’s eyes were, anatomically speaking, quite large. But there had to be more to it. If uncharacteristically large eyes were enough to unnerve us, we would tremble every time we happened across a globe eye goldfish.
At any rate, every time I felt her staring, I wished desperately to scream aloud, “Please! No more! Stop looking at me!”
But because such a statement would undoubtedly come across as submissive, I instead stood straight and tall, as if I had a bamboo ruler taped to my spine. I mustered all the strength I could to maintain a facade of calm. When the Evil Eye came near, I had no choice but to draw my own blade and meet her head-on—and I do not choose that phrasing lightly. Lady Uemura’s gaze was a thing so terrifying, no other description could suffice.