Having interrupted me, Lady Uemura continued, “The year-end party. Have you heard the plan?”
“No. I have not.”
“It’s probably happening sometime after the twenty-sixth. I’m trying to find out what date works best for everyone in the club. When are you free?”
“I’m available anytime.”
“You aren’t going home for the holidays?”
“Not until New Year’s Eve.”
“I see.”
She nodded and glanced at her schedule book. “It’s looking like pretty much everyone will be there. That is, except those close to graduating. The job hunt gets pretty busy this time of year.”
She smiled at me. It was a probing smile: one that hoped to drag some embarrassing tidbit from me, analyze it, and crush it to pieces. This was Lady Evil Eye, after all.
“What are you up to?” she inquired.
“I’d like to ask you the same.”
“I’m here to study.”
“Me too.”
“Let me guess. You’re filling your mind with useless facts again.”
“Plenty of distinguished men have staked their entire careers on the seemingly trivial.”
“Tell me something. Is it always smoke and mirrors with you?”
“Not at all.”
I caught the glint of her evil eye. I prayed I’d be able to piece together some clever excuse if she pressed—anything to deflect her gaze. But I could already hear the tinkling of my shattered pride upon the cold, hard ground. I was backed into a corner. In the end, I could conceive no better plan than to avert my own eyes and offer a desultory chuckle.
Worse still, I’d continued to glance about the bookstore as we conversed.
“Meeting someone here?” she prodded.
“Beg pardon?”
I was terrified anew. How was she so perceptive? How many days and nights had she spent honing her intuition to end up as she was now? What mythical polishing agent conferred such a razor-sharp edge? If I didn’t slip away soon, there was no telling what she’d unearth and what kind of tragicomedy might unfold.
Desperate to flee her enchanted gaze, I offered a weak attempt to sever the interaction. “Uh, so I’ll see you around.”
“Expect a text from me,” she responded.
And with that, I left Lady Uemura’s side.
Her evil eye, however, seemed to linger. I found myself unable to calm my nerves and quickly realized I was no longer in any state to conduct my usual research. I was liable to commit a fatal blunder that could make all my hard work go up in smoke.
But all was not lost. Eventually, Mizuo would have to make her way home. I decided it would be safer to observe her during her journey, rather than here at the bookstore, and so I took my leave.
✦ ✦ ✦
Mizuo’s building was situated next to Mototanaka Station, on the main line of the Eizan Electric Railway. It was in the Minami Nishi Ura neighborhood, a place where narrow alleyways twisted and turned in incomprehensible knots. In stark contrast to my little castle, a dingy corner room in a two-story, half-derelict wooden structure, Mizuo lived in a brand-new studio apartment in a six-floor reinforced-concrete building. Each unit was furnished with its own private commode and even a personal bathtub to boot.
It had a secure lobby; visitors could not pass through the inner doors without first being buzzed in. That, too, was a world of difference from mine, freely accessible twenty-four hours a day. The doors of my building remained wide open as almost a matter of pride, allowing anyone inside, no matter who they were. For someone as averse to social interaction as me, choosing to live in such insecure lodgings was evidence of my noble character.
However, I could admit that for a young woman living on her own in this morally depraved world, a heavily fortified apartment was a bare minimum. Who knew when a stalker or some other deplorable might creep out of the shadows? Given the risk, perhaps even greater security was called for. Of course, further safety precautions could be suggested without end. But of the potential improvements that could be made to Mizuo’s building, I would opine that at least a doorman was in order, if not ten or twenty. Why, I’d be willing to stand watch every hour of every day myself, but it’s not as if I’m a layabout. Regrettably, I am already engaged in a multitude of projects that sap all my time.
Once I had arrived, I situated myself next to a van parked along the street. The spot offered an excellent view of Mizuo’s typical route, allowing me to ensure her safe arrival home. I pulled out my cell phone, skillfully playing the part of a young twentysomething vexed over a friend running fifteen minutes late.
Dusk’s segue to night had grown more rapid over the past several weeks. Before I knew it, the sun was all but completely under the horizon, and my loitering was growing ever more inappropriate. If I stayed much longer, I’d draw suspicion from passersby. On the other hand, the cover of darkness would minimize my risk of being spotted by Mizuo.
I looked to my right, where the tracks of the Eizan main line stretched to the northeast. Just beyond, they would intersect with Higashioji Street, and from there, they would head toward Ichijoji.
The Eizan’s tracks pierce straight through Kyoto, causing it to resemble a streetcar more than a railway. Sometimes, when I wander aimlessly through the city, one of its trains will abruptly cut straight across my vision, almost as if it has left its tracks and is sliding freely through the jumbled urban landscape. In the darkness, it becomes a glowing box on wheels, carrying a whole bright world all its own.
Every time I spot one at night, I fantasize about hopping aboard, unplanned and ticketless. I’d simply ride to wherever it took me. I’m terribly fond of the Eizan. But in five years of Kyoto life, I can still count on one hand the number of times I’ve been aboard.
✦ ✦ ✦
A two-car train appeared, rolling along the tracks toward Mizuo’s building. It was now very dark out, which only served to emphasize the cars’ bright interior. The instant the train passed, I caught a glimpse of Lady Uemura inside, gently swaying from side to side as she clutched an overhead hand strap.
She glared in my direction. I stiffened momentarily, and my heart threatened to race, but I hushed it, reasoning that surely the sighting was a figment of my imagination. Lady Uemura lived in the southernmost reaches of the city. She had no reason to be riding the Eizan at this time of day. Obviously, I hadn’t actually seen her.
Truth be told, this was a frequent experience. Every time her evil eye landed upon me, its effects remained for some time afterward. It seemed to chase me, accosting me with flashbacks as I went about my business. When I was particularly engrossed in my contemplations, I’d suddenly feel her eyes lurking, watching me from the shadows of the hallway or the space behind the television, and I’d jump in surprise. Passersby with no connection to Lady Uemura whatsoever would abruptly glare at me, their eyes replaced by hers. In particularly horrid instances, I would see dozens of tiny eyes pop open on my ceiling, and they would all glare at me in unison. It was extremely unnerving.
Most troubling was the great and inexplicable sense of shame I felt whenever Lady Evil Eye drew near. No matter how fervently I’d been engaged in my erudite contemplations or what great progress I’d been making, my will to continue withered in her presence. I filled with boiling anger instead. Why should a formidable individual such as myself be forced to tremble under the eyes of a young, female college student? But the anger served for naught. I was still powerless, unable to do anything but hold my breath and wait for the threat to pass. Didn’t she realize the harm she was causing? Her frequent interruptions were delaying my inevitable self-perfection. It was a loss that would reverberate throughout all society. The next time I saw Lady Uemura, I would need to steel myself and attempt to discuss the matter directly. Really, I had nothing to fear. My enemy was but a pair of eyes—though popular wisdom does admittedly hold that eyes may speak volumes.
Her perceptiveness at the bookstore still nagged at me. It seemed that Lady Uemura might be vaguely aware of my history with Mizuo. As an intellectual and someone ever striving to supplant emotion with rational thought, I have utmost confidence in my ability to conceal any juvenile sentiment that might occasionally manifest inside me. But I had spent four years’ worth of club functions in close proximity to Lady Uemura. Considering her incredible acuity—thoroughly honed over however many patient years with whatever mythical polishing agent she had at her disposal—it was quite possible that she had picked up on some tiny mannerisms and deduced the foolish emotions I was hiding.
I will freely admit that, at one time, I allowed an irrational thought to get the better of me. But it was only for a fleeting moment, and it would trouble me greatly to think that others based their impressions of me entirely on that one fleeting episode. If it could be done, I would have liked to attempt to convince Lady Uemura of her erroneous assumptions, perhaps by penning a very thorough and persuasive paper on the topic.