Chapter 3

CHAPTER TWO Adults That poor boy was like a lost puppy. He was wearing a white T-shirt, rolled-up jeans, and sneakers, and his pitch-black bangs hung over his eyes a little, as if he’d let them grow about a month too long. His skin had a healthy tan and a glow that seemed to come from the inside, although I can tell you he’d never touched a skin care product in his life, whitening or otherwise. His large eyes shone, full of curiosity. That summer was one of the lowest points of my life, and I was just drifting around aimlessly. It was summer vacation during my fourth year in college. My classmates had unofficial offers from multiple companies, but I hadn’t even started looking. My parents lived in the city, and I wasn’t hurting for living expenses, yet I reported in for my part-time job every day. Not because I loved my work there; I intentionally spent every day dillydallying as a kind of protest against something. If I had to put it into words, the something was probably “my parents” or “society” or “expectations” or “duty.” Even though I knew it was a childish way to rebel, I just couldn’t bring myself to start job hunting. I’ve got time, I told myself. It was still early. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to submit to anything yet. —So basically, I was sulking because I didn’t want to grow up. Pretty pathetic, I know. I could tell I was almost at my wit’s end over how hopeless I was, and that was when the boy showed up. He was totally innocent and defenseless, and it was almost ridiculous how easily he was impressed by everything we said, everything that happened to him, everything he saw. He was kinda in the way, but he was interesting, and I took a little pride in helping him, as if I’d suddenly been assigned a younger member of a school club to mentor. Even now, as I listened to him excitedly calling me from the back of my motorbike (“Ms. Natsumi, Ms. Natsumi!”) I felt an odd sense of nostalgia—and the exhilarating rush of a new beginning. For the first time in a long while, the rainy wind whipping by my motorbike felt good. * * * “Ms. Natsumi, hey! That place looked like Versailles!” I shouted without thinking. Out of the corner of my eye, I’d spotted an enormous European-style mansion, surrounded by a green lawn. As Natsumi steered the motorbike, she laughed. “God, you’re hilarious, Hodaka! That’s the State Guest House; this area is Akasaka imperial property.” I turned red. “You’re always having a good time, aren’t you?” I gazed at the back of Natsumi’s raincoat, glad she couldn’t see my flushed face. We were headed to the next interview site on her motorbike. Rain-soaked scenery flashed past and flowed away behind us. I still had no idea what part of Tokyo I was in, but no matter where I went or how much I saw, I never got tired of the view. A park like a forest, shining buildings reflecting the sky, old-fashioned shopping streets full of people, a stadium with a shape straight out of science fiction, churches and torii gates in unexpected places, clusters of high-rise apartment buildings that put thousands of rooms in one view—it felt like a box garden crammed with all kinds of different places, and even now, the fact that the rain was falling on me here, in this city, felt unreal. The company was a small editing agency run by Mr. Suga. The first part of the job I’d been told to do consisted of general chores. The office was also where Mr. Suga lived, so I woke up every morning at seven and fixed breakfast. I’d never cooked before, so I really had no idea what I was doing at first, but fortunately, Mr. Suga wasn’t exactly nitpicky about chores. He ate everything I brought him—from my clumsy fried eggs and miso soup to the instant miso soup and side dishes I bought at convenience stores—unenthusiastically but indiscriminately, and without comment. Then came cleaning and tidying up. I cleared away the cups and glasses and empty cans Mr. Suga left everywhere, washed the dishes, and sorted the garbage and took it out. I picked up the socks and T-shirts he stripped off and left lying around like a little kid, tossed them in the laundry, and scrubbed the bathroom and shower. After that, I finally got to the tasks that felt like an actual job. I sorted the postcards and envelopes crammed into the mailbox, wrote invoices to send to publishers, and took the receipts out of the empty box where they’d been tossed and pasted them into a notebook, sorted by date. The task that took the most time was transcribing interviews. I typed up the audio I’d recorded on my smartphone or IC recorder as text files. That text would be used as a resource when Mr. Suga or Natsumi (or, rarely, I) drafted articles. Before long, Natsumi arrived at the office on her pink Honda Cub. She was a part-timer, not a full staff member, but she was the one in charge of the company’s accounting. “Uh, excuse me? I know I told you liquor costs are social expenses!” Natsumi scolded, checking over the account book. “What, that’s all you got still?” Mr. Suga told me off, peering in at the computer screen. “You know you’ve got to buy these things on sale.” Natsumi gave me a hard time when she saw my supermarket receipt. “I’ve told you before, take out all the throat-clearing! What’s the point of writing down every single hem and haw?!” Mr. Suga yelled at me when he read my copy. “Is he still out of the office? Yesterday, you told me he would be back ‘by tomorrow,’ remember?” I apologized to an editor who’d called with a deadline reminder. “Kid, if you don’t chill soda water, you wreck it!” Mr. Suga criticized my highball while he was busy pretending not to be home. Every day, I felt like I was being swept along by an unfamiliar muddy torrent, and I spent those days working desperately, startled every time I came up against my own ignorance and incompetence. Still—and I thought this was really strange, myself—despite the constant criticism, the work wasn’t painful at all. As a matter of fact, the more they yelled at me, the more thrilled and happier I was. Why? Was I that type of person? Just last month, being bossed around and pinned down had been more than I could take, and yet… What was it about me that had changed over these two weeks? “These people say they’re looking for a sunshine girl!” “They’re what?! That’s hilarious!” The trio of high school girls shouted with laughter. They were so loud that I looked around on reflex. We’d come to a family restaurant across from a big department store, and the place was bustling with people, even though it was noon on a weekday. Natsumi had made an appointment with these girls online, and they were sitting in the booth with their feet up, hugging their knees, even though they were wearing short school uniform skirts. It was the first time I’d been this close to girls my age in quite a while, and their strong personalities were sort of overwhelming. Their compensation for telling us about the rumors was access to the drink bar and one dessert of their choice, per person. “My little sister says her friend’s boyfriend’s friend’s classmate is, like, legit a sunshine girl! …Huh? Her age? I dunno, same age as my sister? Middle school? Anyway, she’s incredible. Like, we’re not talking about the weather just clearing up sometimes when she comes around or anything. She’s on a whole different level! She just has to pray, like you’d do to your shrine at home, and say she wants sun on this or that day. Like, if you’ve got a date coming up or whatever, and you want the weather to be nice no matter what—” I took notes as if my life depended on it. I was remembering what Mr. Suga had told me: Don’t just rely on recordings. Stay with the flow and take notes. “Okay, moving on: We’ve got an appointment at Waseda in thirty minutes!” Natsumi called, and I ran after her like a junior member of her club. “As I told you in my e-mail…” Just outside a lab, a serious-looking man with thin glasses droned at us as if this was the biggest waste of his time. “I agreed to this because the introduction came from Mr. Sekiguchi, but we’re an extremely respectable laboratory; we even work with the Meteorological Agency. Ah, I’m not saying your magazine isn’t respectable, but—” Twenty minutes later, the once-reluctant man was leaning forward, speaking with such intensity that spit was flying from his lips. “Just then, the videosonde from the observation balloon I’d been monitoring picked up some truly bizarre readings! You could never see it from the earth, but deep in a cumulonimbus cloud, there were groups of minute objects, moving like living creatures! I mean, I don’t know what they actually were, of course; they may just have been static. However— Well, I generally try not to say this too openly, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find ecosystems we still don’t know about in the sky. The sky is far deeper than the ocean, after all. As a matter of fact, similar stories invariably come up when I attend drinking parties with the older researchers. For example—” “I told you—it’s too wordy. Be more direct. You’ve got too many roundabout metaphors in there,” Mr. Suga scolded as he read the printout. “Uh, excuse me?! Preliminary meetings go under ‘meeting expenses,’ remember?!” Natsumi wasn’t happy when she saw the account books. “Look, I’ve told you before: Coherence is the name of the game! The introduction and conclusion have nothing to do with each other. Get rid of this whole paragraph and rewrite it!” Mr. Suga yelled at me, looking at the computer. We hadn’t gotten back from the interviews until evening, and it was already late at night, but we were still writing copy for “Latest Edition: Urban Legends of Tokyo,” a thirty-page special feature article. “Oh, but this paragraph’s not bad. Try bumping it up to the top of the page and using it as a hook.” “Yessir!” “Hodaka, would you make us some coffee?” “Yes’m!” “Not the instant kind. Grind some beans.” “Yes’m!” “Hodaka, I’m getting hungry.” “Yessir!” “Me too. In fact, scratch the coffee; I’d rather have noodles.” “Yes’m!” “Udon for me. Sara udon–style—no soup.” “Yessir!” “Actually, make that grilled udon.” “Yessir!” I put an iPad with the Cookpad recipe site open beside the sink, then awkwardly sliced onions and chopped carrots. There was no pork, so I added tuna instead, stir-fried the udon noodles with the powdered sauce, and sprinkled bonito flakes over the top. By the time I carried in the grilled udon, the other two were slumped over the desk, fast asleep. The manuscript was due tomorrow, and it wasn’t done yet. I have to wake them up, I thought, but I still stood there for a little while, gazing at their faces. Mr. Suga’s skin was dry, and his stubble had a few white hairs here and there. Natsumi’s skin and hair were both smooth, and when I got closer, she smelled so wonderful it made my chest feel tight. They’re both really…cool, I thought. Come to think of it, cutting onions really does make you cry. It was only just now hitting me that even this was a new experience for me. And all at once, some of the dots connected. I see. That’s why everyone tells us practically anything during interviews. The high school girls and the university researcher and that fortune-teller all talked the way they did because they were talking to Natsumi. She doesn’t reject anybody, she doesn’t act different depending on who she’s talking to, and she’s so attentive and curious when she listens; that’s why everybody’s so quick to tell her things, even if those things seem completely nuts. Ah, so that’s why… I’d figured out something else, too: the reason all the scoldings didn’t hurt the slightest bit. It wasn’t that I’d changed; it was because the scoldings were coming from these two. Neither Mr. Suga nor Natsumi cared that I was a runaway. They were relying on me as naturally as if I was a normal member of their staff. Each rebuke was their way of telling me You can do a little better than this. It was like an injection; only the initial sting hurt, and it was making me stronger. I felt refreshed, as if I’d finally managed to strip off tight, heavy clothes, and I shook Mr. Suga’s shoulder, telling him he had to wake up or he’d catch a cold. * * * I thought I understood, if only vaguely, why Kei had picked him up. Back then, I think both Kei and I were probably looking for some sort of push. Something like a faint breeze that would carry us to a new destination. Something like a traffic light changing color—a slight opportunity. “Come on, Ms. Natsumi, you wake up, too,” he said as he shook my shoulder, and hearing his voice, I somehow knew that it wouldn’t be much longer. By the time this summer ended, my long moratorium would be over, too.