The holiday was almost upon us. Shikama’s cheeks grew gaunter with each passing day. He began to exude the air of a dedicated Shinsengumi trooper, his sharp eyes threatening, Keep your distance—or taste my steel. (Of course, this attitude was in no way driven by feelings of jealousy or incessant lusting after the women he passed on the street.)
We often supped together at Kenya, a diner on Mikage Street. Each evening I saw him, he struck me as a bit more emaciated than before, as if he were slowly transforming into one of those statues of Siddhartha beneath the sacred fig tree. I found myself concerned for my friend’s health. I wondered if this year he would even make it to Christmas Eve.
In any case, we could feel the demon festival creeping close. The twenty-fifth was but days away. As I mentioned earlier, Shikama always resisted its arrival with everything he had, and the prolonged state of tension usually resulted in a high fever come Christmas morn, followed by a full day spent bedridden. I mean that in a very literal sense. That was the intensity with which Shikama opposed the Yule.
At this, our most recent dinner together, Shikama was scarfing down monstrous bites of hamburg steak as he inquired, “So what’s the news on Endou?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
“Egad! You’re letting him be? Are you quite certain you’re okay with that?”
“I’m done thinking about him. Let him do what he wants. I don’t give a damn.”
“Hmm. Well, if you’ve made your peace with it…,” Shikama replied. “Of course, that’s probably for the best. Christmas is close. We’ll need all our attentions focused on what’s to come.”
A dubious grin worked its way across his cheeks. I wondered what convoluted plans for the Eejanaika Uprising were swirling behind Shikama’s emaciated eye sockets. The very prospect had my stomach churning. I brought a finger to my nose to check for blood.
Admittedly, Shikama had a tendency to embellish. It was entirely possible that his concept of a “Christmas Eve revolution” would turn out to be thoroughly unremarkable. Based on the uprising’s ridiculous name alone, I had a hard time imagining a bloodbath in the streets. At the same time, my everyday conversations with Shikama provided little clue as to what precisely his uprising was supposed to entail.
Nonetheless, this was his fifth year subjected to the torment of Christmas fascism. Clearly, he saw this as his final stand. I only prayed, both for his sake and for the collective dignity of our small circle, that we wouldn’t end up reliving the misery of a certain past holiday season.
It was the winter of our second year. The four of us were on our traditional mid-December stroll through Shijo Kawaramachi. Every year around that time, we paid a collective visit to the Suzuki Record Shop on Teramachi Street. There, we’d purchase a calendar for the new year—one that featured glossy photographs of whatever female pop stars were currently in vogue, entirely for the purpose of keeping ourselves abreast of cultural trends. After that, we’d casually roam the city streets, exuding combative vibes, as if to insinuate to everyone we encountered What’s so great about Christmas, anyway?
That particular year, however, we were waylaid by a fierce winter wind. It pierced our downy armor, assailing our morale until we erupted in argument about whether we were actually accomplishing anything and why we’d come out that night at all. By the time the storm of harsh words and needlessly hurt feelings subsided, we were huddled sullenly on one bank of the Kamo at the base of the Great Sanjo Bridge.
The river flowed by cold and uncaring. We could hear each other’s teeth chatter. Couples slowly walked across the bridge, hand in hand, and we stared up at them, our eyes narrow, mouths spitting impulsive curses. Some of them shot angry glances back. Eventually, the cold sapped our strength so thoroughly that we could no longer maintain our antagonism. Takayabu the giant began to weave back and forth in the cold northern wind, singing:
Not of this world ’tis this tale of sorrow.
Down at the base of the trail to Mount Shide…
Ido and I puffed away on cigarettes wordlessly, and Shikama began humming a rivaling set of refrains—ones I quickly placed as the Izumiya supermarket jingle:
Great products, low prices! You’ll find it at Izumiya!
After a moment, Shikama fell silent. In his eyes were the faint reflections of city lights shimmering on the far bank. Only Takayabu—bushy, full-bearded Takayabu—sang on:
Stack a stone for Pa, and stack a stone for Ma.
The child toils alone, building blessings for kin.
But when the sun sinks, the bank fills with ogres
to knock down his work, and tear hope asunder…
✦ ✦ ✦
Shikama and I were on our way to the Kyoto Station building, located on Hachijo Street. We’d heard a rumor that a monstrous Christmas tree was on display at the base of the station’s grand staircase, and we thought a visit might prove an excellent opportunity to steel our resolve in the lead-up to the Eejanaika Uprising. A warm-up skirmish, so to speak. We decided to situate ourselves right at the base of the tree and begin by observing the local populace. I figured, if opportunity arose, I could poach a few Santa Clauses as well, which we could later chop up for a nice Saint Nicholas hot pot.
The massive, artificial tree seemed to pierce the sky itself. It was wrapped with coil after coil of twinkling lights. Couples stood hand in hand at its base, undeterred by the cold, relentless wind blowing down from the top of the staircase. They eagerly snapped photos of themselves beside the plastic boughs in commemoration of their visit. Frankly, I didn’t see the appeal.
Shikama and I stood with our hands stuffed in our pockets, chilled not only by the wind. I hadn’t spotted a single Santa and was beginning to resign myself to the possibility that I might end the day without any meat for our hot pot.
Right around the time that our worldly jealousy felt good and piqued, I received a call. The voice at the other end was shrill. For the longest time, I couldn’t determine who it was or what the call was about. After several failed attempts to communicate, I finally determined that the person squawking incoherently at me was Takayabu. From what I could gather, he’d become the object of a woman’s affections and was having a great deal of difficulty coming to terms with the discovery. The man sounded terrified. I tried to ascertain details, but in the end, I was unable to find out who the woman was, how they’d met, or what manner of drama was unfolding.
“I don’t understand. This is cause for celebration, is it not?” I said.
“There must be some mistake!” howled Takayabu, clearly on the verge of tears. “How can this be happening?!”
“What are you talking about? She’s into you, yes? This might be your only chance. You really can’t afford to run from it.”
“But—but…! I mean, just the idea of it! A girl! Liking me! It goes against natural reason!”
Internally, I agreed wholeheartedly with his assessment. But I urged my friend on, if only for his sake.
“Don’t be a fool,” I chided. “One woman’s poison is another’s passion.”
“Wh-what should I do? She’s at the door right now. I’m scared!”
“Don’t think. Just get over there and talk to her.”
“I—I can’t. She’s too real. She moves. She’s alive. She’s three-dimensional!”
“Calm down. Of course she’s real. Don’t tell me you honestly planned to live your whole life lusting after girls on screens.”
To be honest, I wasn’t sure whether to rejoice for the man or pity him. The world is ruled by cruel, merciless gods that find joy in our torment. My compatriots and I had cast off the yoke of society and after a great many travails managed to acquire the skills necessary to survive in the scorching desert of our newfound existence. We’d achieved a suitable measure of self-satisfaction. Why, then, did the gods deem it necessary to dangle unwanted blessings before our eyes? And more importantly, if they were going to toss Takayabu a bone, why the hell couldn’t they toss me one, too?
Takayabu emitted a prolonged sob and then announced into the receiver, “I think I’m going to go away for a while.”
And with that, he ended the call.
The man was a gentle giant. His bizarre appearance made it easy to forget that the soul inside was crafted of terribly fragile glass. He was Hideaki Tokunaga’s half-broken radio. Come to think of it, I felt certain I’d heard the tinkling of crystal shards at the other end of the line, just before Takayabu hung up.
“What was that about?” asked Shikama, looking displeased. His hair was disheveled from the gusts of icy wind ripping through the station. It lent him a curious appearance, like an elderly schoolchild.
“Takayabu seems to have broken,” I explained.
Even today, as I pen this record, I haven’t managed to unravel the mysteries of the terror that beset my friend that day.