In the middle of the night, I received a call from Shikama: He was in the hospital.
He’d been cycling down Higashikuramaguchi Street when he lost control and went flying headfirst over the handlebars. His chin struck the asphalt, resulting in a five-stitch gash. Apparently, he’d staggered all the way to the emergency room unassisted, blood pouring down his chin for the entire journey.
As for the crash, it was unclear whether that was due to Shikama’s habit of staring intently at women walking along the street or the overabundance of concentrated turmeric energy drinks he’d been quaffing as of late. Perhaps the turmeric had begun to disturb his homeostasis rather than maintain it.
“I heard shouting,” he griped into the receiver. “Very strange shouts, from an equally strange group of individuals.”
“How so?”
“They had loud baritone voices, and they were following me. They were shouting ‘Hey-oh! Hey-oh! Heeey-oh!’ That’s the reason I crashed. The voices distracted me.”
“They must have been monks in training. Sometimes they walk around the city.”
“No, this was something else entirely. Big, brawny men in full-body unitards. They were covered from head to toe.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, nor why the conversation suddenly involved unitards.
“You’re talking nonsense again,” I told him. “Please try to calm down. You’ll run a fever at this rate.”
“There were four of them, I tell you! And they were carrying a giant golden carp!”
And with that last, completely inscrutable declaration, he hung up the phone.
I began to fear that Shikama had reached his limit.
Let us imagine: I’m walking down the street, nearing the Hyakumanben intersection when I hear shouting from the east. “Hey-oh! Hey-oh! Heeey-oh!” I turn to find four burly men at the crosswalk, hustling in my direction. Each is clad from head to toe in a gray unitard, his face and every other bit of skin obscured. The men’s arms are extended high above their heads, effortlessly carrying some indistinct object in the manner of a mikoshi. All the while, they continue to shout in their deep, baritone voices. “Hey-oh! Hey-oh! Heeey-oh!” The men move in what can only be described as a half walk, half dance, and as they draw closer, I finally see what it is they’re carrying.
Held aloft by the muscled arms is my good friend Shikama. He squirms and flails his limbs in an attempt to escape. His mouth emits a steady wail over the men’s rhythmic chants. All I can do is stand in shock as he’s carried past. The four men glance back at me briefly as they continue on, bounding off toward Mount Daimonji.
I sat for a while, centered in my four-and-a-half-mat room, playing around with this scene in my mind.
I prayed that for once—this year, at least—my friend would not collapse with a fever on Christmas morn.
✦ ✦ ✦
Eventually, it became clear that what had been chasing Shikama that night was not a group of burly men clad from head to toe in unitards.
Shikama had taken an early dinner in the Central Cafeteria. He absentmindedly piled his tray with ginger-fried pork, cabbage-nested eggs, miso soup, and white rice and then absentmindedly chose a seat. It was only after sitting down that he saw her. Seated right across from him was the woman who topped Shikama’s list of those deemed currently worthy of his attentions—and the woman who had grown visibly suspicious of Shikama’s constant staring. As you’ll recall, Shikama’s discomfort had grown to the point where he intensely feared any encounter with her, even if legitimately by happenstance.
Shikama stifled a gasp. The woman looked up at him, and she, too, gasped. Shikama was overcome with the urge to leave as soon as possible. Cursing his spinelessness, he remained seated, scarfing down his meal at roughly three times his regular speed. Once finished, he stood up and darted away.
Why must he be obliged to flee in such a situation? My heart goes out to the man.
Having escaped, Shikama decided to head to the University Library. The dinner, insufficiently masticated and now stewing in violently gurgling digestive juices, felt heavy in his gut. Nonetheless, he found a seat and immersed himself in the memorization of various legal precedents pertaining to the Civil Code. The burst of inspiration did not last long, and Shikama began to instead doodle a picture of Jeremy, the weird, interdimensional life-form from the animated Beatles film, Yellow Submarine. He was soon engrossed in the exercise, adding more and more detail to the drawing until eventually Jeremy was surrounded by a vast field of intricate shrubs and flowers.
After about thirty minutes spent immersed in that pursuit, Shikama sat back with a deep sigh of relief. This wasn’t what he’d set out to do, but it still felt like a significant accomplishment. As he basked in self-satisfaction, he peered around the library—and immediately regretted doing so.
Among the forest of student heads, he caught sight of her again, the same woman from before. She was sitting on the far side of the study room. Their eyes met, and she stared back icy daggers. Shikama hastily turned away. When he felt he’d waited long enough, he risked another glance. The woman had already packed up her study materials and left.
Shikama was disconsolate. He’d lost all appetite for further doodling. But he desperately wanted to avoid another encounter with the woman, so he waited for some time to pass before finally packing his own things and leaving the library behind.
Fearing another misunderstanding if he loitered about campus, he determined that the responsible course of action was to return directly to his lodgings. The whole situation was devastating to him. He began to feel as though there was no place for him in Kyoto.
Little did he know, the day’s trials had only just begun. As he grabbed his bike, a devil’s whisperings reached his ear. If he was headed to his lodgings, why not stop by the video shop? It was on the way, after all.
Shikama’s sister was away visiting their parents in Osaka. He had the whole place to himself. How long had it been since he last defanged his raging inner beast? Tonight, he would extract the toxins that had been allowed to accumulate inside his mind, emerging on the other side as a better, more tolerant member of society—and in the process securing a night of deep, comfortable sleep. Surely any of us can understand and forgive him his small detour, given such noble intent.
It was past dark as he sped along Higashikuramaguchi Street, just beyond Nishiiori Bridge and the canal that snakes north to its confluence with the Takano. It’s a poorly lit stretch of road, owing to a dearth of streetlights.
Shikama was nearing a white three-story apartment building when he caught sight of a young woman locking up her bicycle in the building’s small parking area along the street. Just as Shikama passed, she finished securing the bike and turned to head inside. The fluorescent bulbs mounted on the nearest telephone pole cast a wan light upon her face, and their eyes met.
It was her.
“Just to be clear,” Shikama would later insist, as he recounted the story, “I was not stalking her.”
Shikama would never forget the mix of astonishment, terror, and disgust on her face at that third coincidental meeting.
He zipped away, still hurtling down Higashikuramaguchi Street, now wondering what manner of inauspicious star had shone overhead on the day of his birth.
No! he’d wanted to shout. It’s not what it looks like! I didn’t follow you home; I swear!
But he couldn’t. The tragedy of his situation was clear. The more staunchly he denied wrongdoing or insisted upon coincidence, the more he’d back himself into a corner. The situation was beyond resolving. It was a wretched failure on his part but also a bitter injustice thrust upon him by a cruel world, and as he scrunched up his face in indignation, he allowed his eyes to squeeze shut for just the briefest moment. And in that fleeting instant, his front tire lurched over a bump in the sidewalk, sending Shikama over the handlebars and elegantly careening through the air.