The sun now sat deep below the horizon, ushering in the inevitable twinkling of Christmas lights all across the city. The paper lanterns at the Tanaka Shrine flickered in the distance, but even their warm orange glow offered little solace in this world of garish white.
I did my best to avoid the frivolous seasonal decorations, traversing dim alleyways toward home. In my anger, I’d departed the scene without my beloved bicycle. Manami still sat parked in front of Mizuo’s building. I’d have to return again the following day to reclaim her.
As I trudged along, my breath came out in harsh bursts, opaque. The sight summoned another, belated surge of anger: I felt my fury at Mizuo rekindle and mix in with that for the unnamed man. I knew I should not allow such sentimental nonsense to rule my mind, but I still found myself lodged deeply in its bog.
Damn that man, whoever he was. He was undoubtedly relating the evening’s encounter to her at that very moment, a proud knight boasting of his heroic deeds. He’d conveniently leave out the part where he quivered before me like a dish of egg tofu, painting instead a scene of unblemished gallantry. He had convinced me to see the error of my ways, he’d claim, after which I’d prostrated myself before him and begged for forgiveness.
“It’s all right now,” he’d reassure her. “He won’t be bothering you anymore. And if he does, I’ll just run him off again.”
On and on he’d gloat, chest puffed and shoulders wide as he sat cross-legged on the floor of her apartment, sipping tomato juice. He was the type of man who reeked of self-restraint—only a little alcohol, no smoking. Unthinkable.
But even more than him, I couldn’t bring myself to forgive her.
A year ago, just prior to Christmas Day, Mizuo had unilaterally brought our relationship to an end. It came quite out of the blue. However, as a gentleman who holds himself in the highest regard, I, of course, remained calm. I allowed no trace of my dismay to slip, despite her merciless rejection, and I graciously withdrew from our social arrangement. After our final conversation in my abode, we cordially shook hands and went our separate ways. Not every man is capable of so honorable an end.
It helped that I recognized the reason for her error. Her dumping me was inevitable. She had been forced to deny me because she was unable to grasp my true greatness. And there was no shame in that. We all have our limits. That was precisely why I allowed things to end so amicably. It was why I’d been able to discard any remaining feelings I might have had for her and easily return to single life. My continued studies of her are most certainly not based in any kind of lingering attachment. I have always conducted my research in a calm, detached, and chivalrous manner. I’ve never sent her disturbing, unsigned letters. I’ve never called her from a pay phone and remained silent on the line. I’ve never spread injurious rumors about her among our peer group. I would never engage in such foolish, fruitless behavior. So there was absolutely no reason for her to embarrass me by employing the services of that pathetic man. If anything, she should be offering me thanks for all I’ve done.
My feet began to slam against the asphalt with each step. My breathing grew heavy, and the accompanying puffs of white only grew more heated. I imagined I must have looked like a steam locomotive chugging along the street. I continued on like that through the quiet residential district of Kitashirakawa, my smokestack’s long white cloud trailing behind. I spotted a girl standing at the front gate of her home, likely having just returned in time for dinner. When she saw me, her expression stiffened, and as she dashed the few remaining steps to safety, I heard her start to bawl.
✦ ✦ ✦
Eventually, I rejoined Mikage Street, just past the intersection at Kitashirakawa Betto.
From there, Mikage begins to climb before ultimately narrowing into a tiny, winding mountain road known locally as Yamanaka Pass, which continues all the way to Lake Biwa. The dilapidated building in which I resided was located just beyond the end of Mikage Street proper, where the road was at its narrowest, beginning its elongated climb into the mountains and eventual transformation into Yamanaka Pass.
When heading out to purchase cigarettes on weekend nights, I’d often catch sight of cars zipping up into the mountains, like close encounters of another kind. Given the strange roar of the engines and the otherworldly glow of their pearlescent white exteriors, I could only surmise that their drivers were rushing to the mountaintop to swap signals with Alpha Centaurians. Mercifully, my own room was located at the very back of my building, so the racket generated by such lawless degenerates rarely interrupted my contemplations.
When I reached my building, I ascended its short concrete stairway to the front entrance, glancing at the flickering gate lamps to my side. I opened the door to find the interior pitch-black. This was not surprising. The building was more or less self-managed, the tenants themselves responsible for turning the hallway lights on or off as needed or desired. Some days, when we’d all decided we didn’t have the energy to spare, the entire building remained bathed in darkness all through the night. Frankly, the structure was quite nearly derelict. And as if its sad state wasn’t enough, recent years had also seen a sharp decline in occupancy. New pairs of sneakers were scarcely ever found in the shoe cubby in the entryway, and the shredded specimens left by previous tenants sat festering and fermenting in their own savory fungal colonies, tendrils unfurling in intricate geometrical patterns. It was but one more contribution to the building’s depressingly decrepit appearance.
Run-ins with other residents were nonexistent. Among typical social groups, a smaller number is usually thought to correlate with tighter bonds among its members. But the modern-day college students inhabiting this run-down building seemed intent on avoiding contact to whatever extent possible, and that trend only grew more pronounced as our numbers dwindled.
By that point, the only indications I had of other tenants were the occasional bangs of unseen doors opening and closing. Truthfully, there was no way to be certain the noises were produced by human hands and not those of spirits. Ultimately, I had no hard evidence that anyone other than myself actually lived in the building at all. I personally saw this as a positive, for the constant cloying sense of others drifting about me like departed souls allowed me to steep myself in an ever keener sense of solitude.
I made my way down the hallway, slowing when I became aware of a shadowy figure squatting in front of the door to my room.
As I cautiously drew nearer, I realized it was a maneki-neko.
✦ ✦ ✦
I imagine many of you have at some point seen a tanuki figurine, typically fashioned from Shigaraki stoneware and resting outside a soba joint or similar establishment. They’re curious objects, usually with a sake jug dangling from one hand and an account book from the other, along with an absurdly large pair of testicles between their legs. They always seem to stare down passersby with inexplicable, wide-eyed hostility. Occasionally, the things are more statue than figurine, towering over you like the muscular guardians found at a temple’s gates. Come to think of it, the largest tanuki are probably just the right size to squash two or three unsuspecting children if tipped over. In any case, I’ve always found tanuki statues quite mysterious. They strike me as a bit irritating—and also a bit delightful.
A maneki-neko—a lucky cat, if you will—is an equally common sight. Yet these are rarely fashioned as towering monstrosities the way tanuki sometimes are.
The maneki-neko resting outside my door was, without question, the largest specimen I’d laid eyes on in all my twenty-four years. A cat of this size wouldn’t just be pulling in a few extra customers and bits of loose change with its monstrous upheld paw; it occurred to me that it might bring everything under the sun rushing in, from uninvited guest to terrible calamity. It had a horrible magnificence about it, like a stout, bossy mother, large and in charge, ready to take on anything the world might throw at her.
Uncertain what else to do, I opened the door and began dragging the statue into my tiny four-and-a-half-mat abode. Once it rested in the middle, I stood peering into its eyes, my own face still frozen in abject shock. Where on earth had it come from?
It was inert, of course. Yet it seemed to pulse with life, a great and intimidating presence that dwarfed my own. I feared that at any moment it might stretch open its terrible maw and swallow me whole.
I was still standing there like a toad before a mirror, greasy sweat sliding down my skin, when a knock came at the door. In a daze, I turned and opened it to find Shikama, a big grin on his face.
“I’ve got a dreamball,” he announced. “I’m going to break it open, and I want you to bear witness.”
And with that, he thrust a blue orb before my eyes.