When I set foot in Gion, the day’s shadows were long and growing. The gate of the Yasaka Shrine was wet with recent rain, and it shone a brilliant vermillion. There was a restless throng gathering in the area as evening fell, which only increased my feeling of discomfort. Still, I forged ahead. I was on a mission to reclaim my beloved.
Tourists and students loitered on the shrine’s wide, shallow staircase, intoxicated by the spectacle of the sun setting at the far end of Shijo Street.
I made my way hastily past the shrine gate, crossed at the traffic signal, and slid open the glass door of the Gion Police Box. The interior was dim and cramped, and the stagnant air lazily swirled across my cheek. Several officers stood or sat in the limited space available. When one of them looked me in the eye, I was seized by a sudden fantasy that I was there for a different reason; the Kyoto Prefectural Public Safety Commission had received a tip about Shikama’s plans for the Eejanaika Uprising, and I’d come to turn myself in to the authorities. I suppressed a cowardly and wholly unnecessary urge to fall to my knees, prostrate myself, and beg forgiveness.
Instead, I puffed out my chest as best as I could and announced, “I received a call about some stolen property.”
I gave my name, and a kindly officer who looked to be near retirement said, “Ah yes. Thanks for coming all the way out here.”
The officer was extremely courteous. He guided me to a desk and handed me a form to fill out. While I did so, he exited the police box, circling around to the back.
When he returned, my beloved was in tow.
“I’m afraid the lock’s been cut,” the officer explained.
But I hardly heard the words. At long last, I was reunited with my precious Manami.
I recognized the irony. A mere two weeks ago, Endou had been hurling insults at me and threatening to call the police. I’d departed the scene in such haste I had inadvertently left my beloved bicycle behind. Now I was retrieving her from the same authorities, indebted to them for their stalwart public service.
According to the police, Manami was found tearing haphazardly through the city streets, spurred on by some unidentified riffraff. The lawless degenerate was charged with embezzlement of lost property, and Manami was taken into protective custody. Just deserts, if I say so myself. I was enraged by the behavior of this cowardly criminal I’d never met and never would, but the important thing was that Manami was back safe at my side.
“Thank you. Really. Thank you very much,” I said, bowing my head to the kindly old officer.
Manami and I departed the police box, handlebar in hand. For a time, we simply walked together, enjoying the sights of Gion, my free hand gently caressing her saddle. An unfamiliar squeaking from her wheels had me slightly concerned. But damaged parts could be replaced. Faulty workings could be substituted. Manami herself could not. I vowed that henceforth, no matter what happened and no matter what danger I faced, I would never again leave her behind in hasty flight.
We basked in that joy of reunion for some time, but eventually I allowed my eyes to wander. I gazed out over the bustling crowds of Gion awash in golden sunset. I decided that so long as I was already here, I might as well pay a long-overdue visit to the Gion Kaikan.
The Gion Kaikan is located along Higashioji Street near the Yasaka Shrine. I’d been a regular patron for all five years of my Kyoto residence. It is a small cinema that exclusively screens double features from bygone eras. While the crowds it attracts on the weekends are not insignificant, during the week only a smattering of seats are ever occupied, like a handful of beans tossed over a vast dirt field. As to the selected films themselves, they are of a middling, hard-to-describe caliber. They are not stellar productions, but neither do they deserve the indignity of being called B movies. And if anything, I find that hard-to-describe quality of the selections to be quite endearing.
On this particular day, the Gion Kaikan was sparsely occupied as usual. I ascended the few steps running along the right side of the desolate lobby and paid the admission fee to the girl at the counter, who might as well have been discussing her day with a death knell. Then I proceeded upstairs to the second floor. The first film of the current screening was already in progress, but such trifling details did not faze me. I am never so boorish as to rush to my seat.
Instead, I took my time, admiring a lustrous black Kuriyama No. 4 film projector on display in one corner. After that, I proceeded to the concessions area—a corner filled with vending machines just next to the entrance to the auditorium. I purchased a coffee and sat on an ebony bench to enjoy a leisurely smoke. The hall was dim, and the air was filled with the hum of the vending machines. On the wall in front of me was a mishmash of film flyers.
Beyond the heavy doors to the auditorium, I heard muffled explosions, strains of music, and the buzz of unintelligible human voices. Clearly, whatever scene was unfolding on the other side was quite spectacular.
Still I sat, with bated breath like the giant catfish at Kashima, ready to thrash and send the earth quaking at any moment. I was at the gates of the silver screen, teetering on the edge: Would I go in? Would I stay out?
I would submit that there are few individuals in this world who can thoroughly enjoy the high-minded, noble pleasure of enjoying a film via premonition alone.
In fact, such was the primary purpose of my visits to the Gion Kaikan. I wished to squat sullenly just outside the doors, visualizing, thinking. Often, my most satisfying visits were those in which I chose to head back home without ever setting foot inside the auditorium. I suppose one might describe it as akin to visiting a soba restaurant for the sole purpose of drinking the soba-yu cooking water provided at the end of the meal, leaving the noodles themselves untouched. However, as I’ve never actually visited a soba restaurant for that express purpose, nor have I drank soba-yu at all, I cannot say for certain.
I was thoroughly enjoying my sullen reprieve outside the screening-room doors when I saw a figure pause in front of the Kuriyama No. 4 film projector. After admiring the projector for a great deal of time, the figure approached me. I was irate and immediately shot them a glare. What brute dared to interrupt my precious pastime?
When I took in the figure’s face, my anger turned to exasperation.
“Oh. It’s you,” I muttered.
“Yup.”
Endou nodded and sat himself down on the adjacent bench.
“I certainly hope you’re not following me again,” I said.
“No. For whatever reason, teasing you has lost its thrill.”
“Don’t you dare suggest we’re friends now. We’re not.”
“Heaven forbid.”
“So why are you here?”
“No particular reason. I just like the atmosphere of this place.”
“Ah. Understandable. I seem to recall that you’re shooting a film of your own.”
“I am.”
“Is it any good?”
“Hard to say.” He paused, then added, “Across heaven and earth, I’m afraid the only being who believes in my talents is me.”
I snorted. “I sincerely doubt that.”
We fell silent, and I lit up another cigarette.
Endou pulled out his cell phone and began tapping away at the buttons, shoulders slumped.
“I’ve been psyching myself up all day, but every time I reach my finger out…”
“What are you going on about now?” I muttered.
“Haven’t you ever experienced that? You spend hours mentally preparing yourself, but when it comes time to actually make the call, you just can’t do it.”
“A call to her, you mean.”
“Yeah.”
My tone grew sharp. “I can’t believe you’re still dithering about that.”
A smile touched Endou’s lips, and he said, “I’m the sensitive type. I have to take things slow, see?”
“You’re a nitwit. That’s what you are.”
“It feels like the pathway from my brain to my fingertips just gets longer and longer. My neurons are firing wildly, trying to make me press the CALL button, but the signal never arrives.”
“You sound like you’re stuck in junior high school.”
My whole body was shaking. How absurd. How uncouth. I reached out and snatched the cell phone from his hands, then jammed my index finger on the CALL button.
It barely had time to ring before a soft voice answered, “Hello?”
“Uh… Is this Mizuo?”
“Yes… Who’s calling?”
I shoved the phone back into Endou’s hands.
He panicked for a moment but managed to bring the phone to his ear, after which he began speaking in a hushed voice.
I remained at his side, sending up great plumes of white smoke from my latest cigarette. I cursed my poor fortune. Why was I compelled to sit here, enduring this sappy junior high school love drama as it unfolded in real time?
And then, with a start, I realized I wasn’t. I didn’t have to stay if I didn’t wish to. So I stood.
I was going to walk out of the theater, just like that, until Endou again turned his eyes upon me.
He was still huddled over the phone, saying, “Yeah. Day after tomorrow. Uh-huh. At Shijo.”
He bowed his head to me, ever so slightly. His smile was so wide that I thought his cheeks might split. This was the same man who, seconds ago, had slumped his shoulders in defeat, overwhelmed by the mental equivalent of a child’s puzzle ring. Now he’d transformed into something even more unbearable to behold. Endou had ascended beyond the hapless have-nots, carried by his newfound nirvana to the far bank, where he alighted gently upon the sand. He stared at me from across the Sanzu, arms casually folded, his infuriating, idiotic smile seeming to say, Keep at it! You’ll get here in time.
When I emerged back onto Higashioji Street, the indigo of the evening sky was dripping down to earth. I brandished both fists, full with the spirit of King Lear wandering the desolate, thundering heath in exile. I shouted to the heavens, “What sort of cruel joke is this?!”
As if in response, radio signals came tumbling from the ether into my cell phone antenna: A text had arrived from the man who had lost his dream.
Tomorrow.
Five PM.
Southeast corner of the Shijo Kawaramachi intersection.
Let nothing stay you.