At first, it was bewildering being at an all-girls school like this, but thanks to Itsumi, my life at the academy was really enjoyable. Joining this club and making new friends were probably my most valuable experiences here.
Even though I say I studied Japanese through Akutagawa and Mishima’s novels, I didn’t have the skills to read full-length Japanese novels when I first joined the club. Every day after I finished my homework, I tried my best to get through our book discussion texts, feeling accomplished on days I managed to get through even ten pages of it. Even though I struggled, Itsumi didn’t give me shorter texts or easier things to read. “With your Japanese abilities, you’ll be able to read this in no time,” she would say before giving me a mercilessly difficult assignment. I must confess, this did make me resent Itsumi at first. I thought she should’ve eased up on me because I was an international student. But as I began to decipher the texts little by little every day, before I knew it, I really had learned a ton of vocabulary, metaphors, and idioms.
As soon as I could read at that level, Itsumi said it was time for me to write.
“I’m afraid that Bulgarian literature isn’t very well-known in Japan,” she said. “So, I’d like you to translate some Bulgarian texts into Japanese and introduce them to us. I feel like this might be your duty, Diana.”
With that, Itsumi immediately ordered a collection of short stories from Bulgaria. With a dictionary in one hand, I began translating these stories into clumsy Japanese. I realized that understanding what you’ve read and writing it down correctly are two completely different things. Every day, I carefully chose each particle, nuance, and tense as I plugged away at my translations.
On the weekends, Itsumi came to the salon and reviewed my Japanese from morning until night. She corrected my work in red ink, and sat so close to me that her breath touched my cheek. She politely explained how to correct my mistakes, but the sight of her collarbone peeking out of her shirt or the movement of her seductive lips proved such a distraction that I couldn’t focus very well. Even so, around my tenth novel, my Japanese writing skills skyrocketed. My Japanese isn’t perfect, but I wouldn’t have been able to write a fifty-page story like this if it hadn’t been for Itsumi.
One day, Itsumi made a suggestion at one of the club meetings. “Why don’t we translate Shiyo’s book, Kimikageso, into Bulgarian? No, not just into Bulgarian, but also into English and French and send it to publishers all over the world? It would be an international hit. Wouldn’t it be great if one of our Literature Club girls spread her wings and flew out into the world?”
All of the members agreed and were thrilled with Itsumi’s idea—except one. Surprisingly, Shiyo Takaoka was the only one who opposed her suggestion.
“Shiyo, why do you look so upset?”
“Itsumi. I’m glad you like my work, but translating it would honestly do a disservice to the original piece. I am proud to be Japanese and that I wrote it in Japanese. My work would die the moment it was translated.”
“That’s not true. You can check the English translation that Sayuri and I make, and as for French, well, isn’t that your specialty? You would be able to capture the original nuance of the piece if you translated it into French, right?”
“I told you, there’s no way to express the nuance of the original! You wouldn’t understand how a professional feels!” Shiyo shrieked. This was the first time that Shiyo, who had always appeared to be so kind to Itsumi, almost became violent. If we all hadn’t been there that day…if it had just been the two of them…something might have happened to Itsumi.
The meeting ended with the issue on hold. I was shocked that the other members casually talked and packed up their things as though nothing strange had happened.
Didn’t they notice how awfully Shiyo had behaved towards Itsumi? Maybe they assumed that Shiyo was just being selfish and immature. Or maybe I was just being petty, thinking it meant something more than it did, because of my own feelings for Itsumi.
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But despite Shiyo’s opposition, Itsumi didn’t give up on translating Kimikageso. She kept it a secret from Shiyo and worked on it behind closed doors.
“The world needs to read her novel,” she insisted at one of our translation meetings. “Shiyo could say what she wants, but I think she’s just insecure. We should send our translations abroad and see how publishing companies react to it. Shiyo would be so happy if she got a good offer, I just know it.”
Itsumi always criticized Shiyo’s work, but it was surely out of tough love in order to help her grow as an author. I loved Itsumi when she was kind and even when she was occasionally stern. Her tough love was also the reason why she’d assigned me all those difficult texts and translations. Love isn’t just about being sweet. I gladly took on Itsumi’s project and kept working on my Bulgarian translation.
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Finally, the season for the Easter & Pentecost Festival arrived.
In my hometown, we make sculptures of eggs and use them to decorate the town square. Every year, the villagers look forward to coloring and drawing patterns on them.
Japan is not a predominantly Christian country and doesn’t typically celebrate Easter. However, since St. Mary’s Academy for Girls is what is known as a “missionary school,” it holds an Easter festival every year. I was asked to demonstrate how we celebrate Easter in Levagrad, so I teamed up with a local museum and started working on my sculpture one month prior to the festival.
On the day of the festival, adorable children filled the campus and hunted for eggs. Ten Easter Bunnies danced around my sculpture in the center of the field. I felt quiet and peaceful watching the pink bunnies dance. I felt a wave of pity: The students who were picked to wear the costumes must have been hot, wearing those suits at that time of year. The chorus students marched as they sang:
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Among the little shops selling snacks and beverages lining the side of the campus, I saw the long line for the Literature Club’s cakes. I stood next to my sculpture and admired how wonderful Easter was in Japan. Our guests were allowed to color and doodle on the sculpture however they liked. I gave crayons to the children that came by and wished them a happy Easter.
My leg started to hurt from standing for too long, so I headed towards the school building to rest. Just then, I spotted a pink bunny escorting Itsumi to the back of the gymnasium. They were just about to announce the winner of the egg-hunt, so no one had noticed that Itsumi and the bunny weren’t there.
Feeling somewhat uneasy, I pushed through the crowd and hurried towards the gymnasium. I heard a deranged voice as I got closer.
“I know what you’re up to. You’re really just making fun of me. Laughing behind my back, calling me talentless!”
“That’s not true. Please calm down, I beg you,” Itsumi implored.
“You’ve always looked down on me. I’ll never forgive you. I’ll kill you.”
When I rushed to the back of the building, I saw a bunny that had a friendly smile plastered on its face choking Itsumi. That contrast was incredibly disturbing. Itsumi’s eyes flew open and her body writhed in pain. I screamed. The bunny, startled by my scream, let go of her neck and ran off.
I rushed over to where Itsumi had collapsed and held her as I sat her up on the ground. She coughed violently.
“Itsumi, are you okay?” I frantically rubbed her back. When she had finally caught her breath, she looked up at my face and slowly nodded in relief.
“What was that? Who was that just now?”
“It’s nothing.”
“But…”
“It’s fine. Seriously, it was nothing. It was just a misunderstanding. Please forget it ever happened.” She started coughing violently again. There were red finger marks clearly imprinted on the base of her neck. Then, I remembered that the bunny had taken its glove off before it left…and that the girl in the suit had been wearing green nail polish.