Chapter 20

Final Book My Encounter with The Long, Long Story of the Postman I first became acquainted with Emon Koumoto at the end of a long summer, when the cool breezes of autumn had just begun to blow. It was a holiday the day we met. I was sitting on a bench in a park that was fragrant with the scent of sweet olive trees, soaking in the beautiful sunshine, chatting to my girlfriend with a pale-colored book on my knee. “Whenever I smell sweet olive, I feel like it’s already autumn. Princess Yonaga, you can hear people’s voices, but can you smell things, too?” “Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t trying to make fun of you!” “I see—so you burn incense. I guess you are a princess after all.” “Huh? The Ten Virtues of the Incense-Smelling Ceremony? By Huang Tingjian? A Chinese poet, was he? Hmm…never heard of it.” “Wow, so when you smell the incense, your senses get keener, like a demon or a god…” “‘Befriend the quiet’… That means you come to feel as if the silence is your friend, right? You sure know a lot of things, Princess.” “No, I’m not saying you’re old! You’re not antique or worn-out, not in the slightest.” “I mean it! I’ve read you many times, and I love your soft, slightly yellowed, easy-to-read pages. The fact that your cover is a little bit faded gives you character and makes me feel like you’re my book.” “No, wait, when I say that you’re yellowed, it’s so minor that you can’t even tell unless you put your face right up close. It’s not like you’re bright yellow or anything.” “Yes, yes, even after fifty years or a hundred, you’ll always be beautiful and cute!” “Huh? I can turn your pages here? But you always say I can’t because you don’t want to turn brown in the sunlight.” “No, I always want to turn your pages, I always want to read you, but—are you sure it’s okay, even though you really hate the sun?” “No, no, I’m very happy, thank you.” “All right, I’ll hold you in the shade so the sun won’t hit you, okay?” I was flirting with my cute girlfriend, taking advantage of the fact that there was no one around. That day, my usually cold girlfriend was letting me enjoy a little taste of her precious affection. So there I was, appreciating our autumn date among the fragrant sweet olive trees, when the crunchy sound of someone stepping on a fallen leaf came from behind me. When I turned to look, there was a man with glasses standing behind the bench, his eyes wide. Ah, there was someone here. I had been too absorbed in listening to Princess Yonaga’s chilly, cherubic, charming voice to notice. The man had undoubtedly heard me talking. I had just been enjoying a simple date with my girlfriend, but unfortunately, other people can’t hear the voices of books, which I often take for granted. Because of that, I probably looked as if I had been talking to myself on a park bench like some kind of crazy person. Ah, I messed up. At school, I was already known as something of an eccentric character, so even if I did get caught talking to a book, everyone would just tease me about it. “Enoki’s going crazy again!” “How about reading a light novel or something normal?” “Your little wife is gonna curse you again!” Outside of school, I tried my best not to talk to any books in front of people. Maybe he thinks I’m creepy? No, he looks like a nice person, so maybe he’s worried about me. He’s probably going to ask me if I’m in trouble or something. Well, that’s a common mistake people make about me, so I’ll just laugh it off like I usually do. But the man didn’t ask me if I was in trouble or who I had been talking to. With a very surprised look on his face, he said something unexpected. “Are you able to talk to books, too, by any chance?” That was the first time I had ever been asked that question. Too, he had said. In other words, the man staring at me with wide eyes through the lenses of his glasses could also talk to books. “Yeah, can you hear the voices of books, too?!” I was too excited. I answered a question with a question. The man smiled happily as he replied. “No. I can sort of understand them somehow, but I can’t hear their words clearly. But you can, right? You can hear her voice.” With deep kindness in his eyes, he gazed at the slim book with the light-blue cover that I was holding in my hands. A person who looks at books like that is someone who loves them from the bottom of their heart. I could tell he was definitely a good person! “Yes, I can! She’s my girlfriend, Princess Yonaga. When we’re alone together, I usually talk to her like I was just now. My name is Musubu Enoki. I’m a first-year at a high school nearby.” I introduced myself, and the man made an even kinder, friendlier face. “I’m Emon Koumoto. I’m here for work.” Emon told me he ran a bookstore in a small town in Tohoku and in fact was the owner of the place. “A bookseller? That’s awesome! The books that line the shelves in stores are very chatty and lively, you know. Especially the new releases on the flat displays. They all call out like little newborn chicks, ‘Read me! Read me!’” “Yeah, I know. Doesn’t matter what kind, the freshly delivered new releases are always very excited, huh? I get the sense they just can’t wait to be read. Whenever I open one of their covers, I can practically feel their exuberance.” “That’s right! That’s it exactly! Books that have just gone on sale are like little kids full of curiosity. They wait for someone who will read them, and they get really happy and attached to anyone who picks them up. They’re so cute, right? Wah! Princess Yonaga, n-no, you’ve got it wrong; I’m not talking about cheating! I just think they’re innocent and cute. It’s a totally different kind of ‘cute’ than when I talk about you! I’m sorry—don’t curse me.” I apologized frantically to her as she was making accusations in that frigid voice of hers, and Emon watched me with a smile. “I’m sorry, my girlfriend is the jealous type. She hates it when I talk about other books.” “That sounds rough. I’m sure she’s very devoted to you. And very proud. Her name seems very appropriate.” “Yes, she’s my precious princess.” Princess Yonaga’s mood seemed to improve as I had this exchange with Emon. After all, as a book herself, she couldn’t help but be fond of someone who spoke about books with such a kind expression like he did. After that, he and I sat on the bench together and talked for quite a long time. “Emon, you said you understand how books are feeling, but what form does that take? Like, do the books sparkle with happiness or something?” “No, it’s really more like a feeling, like, ‘Oh, that one seems happy’…or ‘That one seems lonely’… I’m probably just imagining it most of the time. I often wish I could hear their voices and have conversations with them like you can, Musubu.” Emon smiled and continued. “Oh, but there is one way! Whenever I lay my palm over the cover of a book… My palm gets very warm if it’s happy.” “Your palm?” “Yes, and the opposite is also true. If the book is feeling sad, my palm gets cold.” I placed my palm flat against Princess Yonaga’s cover. She grew mad at me, chiding me for suddenly touching her with my sweaty hand and told me to touch her gently only after I had washed my hands properly with soap. The tone of her voice sounded a little bashful. It was cute. But she didn’t feel particularly warm or cold. “Hmm…guess I can’t feel it. But that’s really amazing. Even if you can’t hear their words, you can tell how a book’s feeling just by touching it. How long have you been able to do that? I’ve apparently been able to hear them ever since I was born. “According to my sister, I would babble at books as a baby, which she thought was weird. To be fair, my older sister, who is now attending medical school in Hokkaido, always did have a sharp tongue…” “I suppose I’ve also been able to do it since childhood. My father was the second-generation owner of the bookshop, and my mother passed away soon after she gave birth to me, so Dad used to take me with him to work. I was basically raised in the bookstore. There were lots of books around, and it was always a mystery to me why, when I touched them, some felt warm and others felt cold.” He told me that when he was ten years old, he had an encounter with a particular book. “It was an anthology of works by Karel apek called The Long, Long Story of the Postman. In the title story, there are some little magical people. They come out to help the postman in the middle of the night, and they’re able to tell the content of a letter just by touching it, without opening the envelope.” “When we touch them, the letters filled with blunt, plain writing feel chilly, cold even. But the more emotional sentiment that is included in a letter, the warmer it will feel in the hand. “Also, just by pressing the letters to our foreheads, we can tell exactly what’s written in them, word for word.” A deliveryman for the post office named Kolbaba hears this from the little people, and after that, he, too, starts mumbling to himself while holding letters in his hands. “This letter is slightly warm, eh? But this letter is much, much warmer. I’m certain that this letter must be one written by a mother to her child.” “—When I read that, I thought, ‘Ah…so that’s what it is!’ When I touched a book with my palm and it felt warm, that book was happy, and if it felt cold, that book was sad, I realized.” Unfortunately, Emon explained, even if he pressed a book cover against his forehead, he couldn’t hear the book’s exact words. He laughed. “If I’m Kolbaba, I guess that must make you one of his little helpers, Musubu. Just as it was fortunate for him to meet the tiny little people, it was my good fortune to make your acquaintance today.” “Yeah! I feel the same way! I’m so happy to meet another person who can understand the feelings of books!” We exchanged contact information. “Please let me know whenever you come to Tokyo! We can talk about books again!” “—Sure, I will. You, too, come visit my shop sometime and chat with my collection.” “—Wow, I will! I can’t wait!” After that day, Emon and I kept in touch, and whenever he came to Tokyo, I always made time to see him. He told me all sorts of things about his life. He told me about his grandmother, Natsu, who had opened up a bookstore after the war, and his sickly grandfather who had wanted to be a writer. He told me about his father, Kanesada, who had been so skilled at reading aloud and so popular with the children, and about how he had wanted to be an artist or an actor. He even told me about his wife and child who had died in the earthquake… After that, I heard about his author friend, Mr. Tamogami. And about the people who worked with him in the shop. And about how Emon’s bookstore was the last one in town. “Koumoto Books will probably end with my generation. “Just like all the creatures that have gone extinct and disappeared from the face of the earth, I think books and bookstores are probably undergoing an extinction of their own. “They’re destined for annihilation, unable to survive in their current form…” Even I was aware of the fact that for the past several years, the number of physical books published had dropped dramatically, while sales of digital publications had been increasing. Not to mention that fewer and fewer people were even reading books at all. Whenever I considered the prospect of books disappearing from this world, I would feel so lonesome it was as if a gaping hole had suddenly formed in the middle of my chest. If that ever happened, so many friends and companions would disappear from my life. It was a frightening prospect. Emon, who showered his books with deep affection, felt the same. But he didn’t seem depressed as he spoke about it—he was as calm and graceful as ever. That’s the kind of man Emon Koumoto was. “Of course, I’m sure it will be many years before books change form completely, and I’m going to keep Koumoto Books going as long as I live.” He made that conclusion in a gentle voice. It was just after the New Year when I unexpectedly received a call from Emon. Not an e-mail—he went out of his way to call me on the phone. I wondered if it was a New Year’s greeting call, perhaps? Or maybe he was coming to Tokyo on business again? When I answered, he quietly confided in me. “It seems the store will be closing earlier than I thought.” His words were devastating to hear, and he sounded very pained and downcast. And then, during that phone call, he made a very important request of me. “He’d developed a terminal brain tumor. The doctors estimated he had, at best, six months left to live.” The night was really wearing on. Normally, I would have been falling asleep at that hour, but I was wide awake. And I was certain the other people in the room with me were feeling the same. Ms. Tsuburaya the part-timer, Mr. Tamogami the author, and Asuka the actress. All three of them were staring at me with disbelief on their faces. I, too, hadn’t believed it when Emon had confided in me. I hadn’t wanted to believe it. He was the first person I had ever met who understood the feelings of books. An extremely kind person—a gentle man with a beautiful disposition—it was unthinkable someone like him would be robbed from this world in only half a year’s time. “So that’s why he entrusted all the titles in Koumoto Books to me in the will he left with his lawyer. His unfortunate accident did mean I had to come here earlier than planned, though.” “The boss had…a brain tumor?” Ms. Tsuburaya muttered, face stiff. She had idolized Emon and had worked at Koumoto Books for a long time, so she must have felt great shock at the news. My heart ached for her. But his brain tumor was proof that his death was not a suicide. “The tumor caused both his fall from the stepladder and his death. He told me he would sometimes get sudden, awful headaches, you see. While he was arranging the books, he must have lost his balance, grabbed for some books, and caused an avalanche as he fell. One of the books happened to hit him in a vital spot, and he struck his head on the corner of the display table while falling, which was the fatal blow—he did not commit suicide. As Ms. Tsuburaya said, Emon Koumoto was not the kind of person who would choose death, not for any reason. It was an unfortunate accident.” “Who killed Emon?” That had been the answer I had received when I had asked the books. They had been loudly bemoaning that they had slain their beloved caretaker. “No way… But Emon sent me that picture book, and then…” Mr. Tamogami wore a grim scowl, as if he were having trouble understanding. Clearly, he was desperate to bear the responsibility for Emon’s death. And he wanted the weight of that crime to drag him down to his own death. When I had gone searching for him earlier and found him shut up in the bathroom, having slit his own wrist, the books that led me there had all been astir. “That man means to die!” “Be careful!” “He went into the toilets.” “Hurry! Take something with you to open the lock.” “He wants to die.” “He’ll die.” “He’ll die.” “He’ll die.” “When Emon suddenly called Mr. Tamogami out of the blue, it was because he had just gotten his diagnosis from the doctor, and he knew his death was close at hand. So he wanted to see his old friend. His estrangement from Tamogami had always bothered him, and he was hoping they would be able to talk about books again, like old times.” “Mr. Tamogami is an author from our hometown, you know, and he once held a book signing at my shop. The line of customers stretched all the way outside… The people and the books seemed so happy, so cheerful… That is my proudest and most joyful memory.” “…Tch, there’s no way he thought of me like that! I stole Emon’s story, used it to win a writing competition, and then ran away without even apologizing!” Mr. Tamogami’s voice was beginning to crack, and his face contorted with doubt and distress. How can I possibly convey Emon’s heartfelt wishes to him? “Emon never said anything like that about you to me. From what he told me, he was really proud and happy when you came to Koumoto Books to hold your book signing because you had always worked so seriously on your writing, certain that you would become an author one day, and your dream had come true.” “No way… There’s no way…” “Ms. Tsuburaya said it, too, right? He actually seemed overjoyed that you used his idea to win such a prestigious award. I’m sure he was, too.” “…Oh.” “I’m also sure he worried about you after you started avoiding him out of guilt, but he didn’t want to say anything about it. Also, don’t you think he sent you the picture book before he died both as a memento and to make sure nobody else would see it after he passed? I’m sure he’d hoped the two of you could talk to each other, like you used to.” How can I possibly repair Emon and Tamogami’s relationship when it’s so hopelessly twisted and complicated? What words can I use to ease his feelings when he’s so burdened by guilt? What on earth can I say? “Stop it, please!” Mr. Tamogami’s scream reverberated around the little gray room. He shook off Asuka’s arms and pitched forward with both hands against the sofa. Eyes wild and breathing heavy, he spoke. “I’m begging you, please stop. Everything you people have said is just well-meaning speculation! What Emon was really thinking, why he never condemned me for stealing his idea, how he was able to smile at me with a clear face like that—I’ve thought and thought and thought long and hard about it—and I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know! Please tell me, Emon… Emon…” There was nothing but despair in his voice and on his face. My words could not get through to him as he was now. He wasn’t going to believe anything besides Emon’s own words. But Emon wasn’t here anymore. Tamogami kept calling for him anyway. “Emon, Emon!” Just then, my ears picked up a faint voice. “Kouichi?” A voice like a small child… From where? “That’s not true, Kouichi!” The sweet little voice called out to him with all its might. “Neither Papa nor I were ever mad at you!” I held my breath and strained my ears. The voice was coming from the blue storage box under the breathtaking painting titled Extinction. The same box that had held the picture book The Field Guide of Extinct Animals. “Read me, Kouichi! “If you read me, I can communicate my papa’s words to you, Kouichi.” The youthful voice continued speaking courageously— I fixed my gaze on Tamogami and asked, “If you think my words are just speculation, then how about we talk to Emon himself?” His face twisted as if he was puzzled by what I was saying. Asuka and Ms. Tsuburaya also looked baffled. I turned my back on them, crouched down on the floor, and opened the blue box. The owner of the voice was staring back at me from inside. It was a picture book with a cardboard cover, on which The Last Bookstore was written in blue crayon, the only one of its kind in the world. So it was you. Will you help me out? Speaking to the book in my mind, I gently lifted the slim, handmade volume out of the box with both hands. “Enoki, is that…? It can’t be!” Ms. Tsuburaya shouted. The “child” that Emon had created thanked me for finding it as it sat atop my open hands. “But I thought the boss sent that to Mr. Tamogami—,” Ms. Tsuburaya mumbled as she looked down at the picture book. Asuka was regarding Tamogami with confusion in her eyes. He looked surprised that I had pulled Emon’s book from the box. “And you returned it to the box—isn’t that right?” Ms. Tsuburaya gasped at my words. When she had shown him into the office earlier that afternoon, he had most likely seized the opportunity to place the book, which he had been keeping in his business bag, into the box while she had gone to fix tea. Putting back the book was the other reason Tamogami had visited Koumoto Books. “…Tch, don’t show that thing to me.” He tried to look away. I insisted, “No, look at it. And please read it to the end. This book that Emon sent to you contains the answer you’d spent so long waiting for. Please accept it.” He glared back at me stiffly. But then his gaze shifted slightly to focus on the cover, and the voice of a small boy called out once again to this man whose eyes were full of pain and sorrow. “Kouichi. “My papa wrote me after he’d heard from the doctor that Mama would probably never have children… “He tried to cheer her up and told her it was okay if they didn’t have any kids, but…actually, he was really disappointed… “He was thinking about how Koumoto Books would end with his generation as he wrote me…” “Emon decided to write this book when his wife miscarried their first child and the doctor told them they could no longer expect to have kids.” Tamogami’s shoulders jumped in surprise. With a painful feeling in my chest, I repeated the words that the childlike voice was telling me with all its might. I described the side of Emon that the adorable little book had seen. “At the time, Emon had thought Koumoto Books was going to end with his generation, right? And just as his father, Kanesada, had left behind a single painting in the face of death, Emon, too, produced this picture book as he thought about the final days of the store.” It was a way of distracting himself from his sadness. Because he certainly couldn’t allow himself to show his pain in front of his wife. “As he was writing me, Papa laughed to himself about how bad he was at writing. “He was chuckling the whole time about how his pictures and words were both awful.” “Emon didn’t make this book for anyone else to read. He never wanted to be a writer or anything. He was just trying to sort out his own feelings.” Tamogami had been so tormented by the guilt of his plagiarism because he was a writer before anything else. And he had projected his feelings onto his friend. That was the source of their misunderstanding. “If Emon had been on the same path as you, if he were another aspiring writer, then your conduct would have been absolutely unforgivable. He probably would have spoken up, claimed ownership of his creation. But he didn’t care about becoming an author. He didn’t really care what happened to the story once he was finished writing it.” It didn’t matter to him if the book was any good or not. He was satisfied just to finish it. “Please read it. Once you do, I’m sure it will be clear to you as well.” “Read me, Kouichi! “Turn my pages.” With both hands, I held out the little book bound between sheets of cardboard, and I stared at Tamogami. Finally, he took it and slowly opened the front cover. “There was only one bookstore in the town. “Once, there had been three, but one by one, they closed, until finally the last one was all alone.” The pictures and prose were crude, like a child had written them. Tamogami must have been recalling the past as he turned the construction-paper pages. He narrowed his eyes, pain and misery clinging to his face. “Kouichi, my papa always talked about how amazing you are. “He was amazed you could turn such a clumsy book like me into such a moving story. “He would say, ‘Kouichi is really incredible. “‘He’s a talented, splendid author.’” Mr. Tamogami could not hear the childlike voice speaking to him from the page written in crayon. But the voice sounded happy. As if it couldn’t help but be glad to have its pages turned by the “Kouichi” that its “papa” had praised so highly. In its cute voice, the book continued narrating about how Papa had told it all about Kouichi, how he’d talked about what parts of Kouichi’s book he liked, and how he’d always been happy when he read Kouichi’s book. It said Papa loved Kouichi, his treasured friend and an author he admired. And then, the book suddenly fell quiet in the middle of what it was saying, and its tone of voice saddened. “Papa said he was sorry. “While he was preparing to send me to Kouichi, he told me, ‘I’m sorry, I should have said something to him earlier. “‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he said. “‘—I’m sorry, Kouichi. I’m sorry.’” Tamogami shouldn’t have been able to hear the book, but still his eyes quickly filled with tears. And then, after he had finished turning the final page— —he saw that there was something written on the cardboard cover in felt-tip pen: I offer this picture book to Mr. Kouichi Tamogami. Thank you so much for taking this poorly made story and breathing life into it, for conferring it with beautiful color and brilliance. It only ever made me happy. “It only ever made me happy…” That was what Emon had most wanted to convey to Tamogami. That he was happy about what had happened. Emon was happy that his clumsy picture book had been transformed into a wonderful piece of art. He was happy that Tamogami had come to hold his book signing at Koumoto Books once he was a published author. He was happy that the customers had excitedly held Tamogami’s book in their hands and formed a line so long it stretched out the door. It had all been so very wonderful and made him so happy he could hardly stand it. “Emon…!” Tamogami hugged the little book tightly and started bawling. In between sobs, he apologized and called his friend’s name. Tears poured down his cheeks. “Kouichi, don’t cry. “Papa loved you, and I love you, so don’t cry.” An image floated up in the back of my mind of a little boy stroking Tamogami’s head while on the verge of crying himself. The little boy resembled Emon. “Mr. Tamogami, you got your big break by plagiarizing Emon’s story. But after that, you continued working as an author for over twenty years, all on your own. You should be proud of that. And you should keep on writing after this. That would be the best apology and the best memorial you could give to Emon.” Tamogami was hanging his head and covering his face with both hands. His tear-choked voice had run dry, and he had given himself over to sobbing. Asuka wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him. His guilt would likely haunt him for a long time. Along with his remorse over lashing out so harshly… His days of suffering would continue. Even so, I hoped he would keep writing. That was Emon’s wish, after all. Ms. Tsuburaya squeezed her hands together fiercely. She was obviously enduring her own sadness and inner turmoil. Her expression was strained and severe, but she looked frailer than her typically decisive self. She must have been thinking about Emon. Thinking about his short life and how he’d lost the people he’d loved one after another. Thinking about his feelings as he sat in this room alone, the room decorated with a painting called Extinction, and wrote his parting words to a dear friend in the back of a handmade picture book… Perhaps wondering, Did he suffer? Or was he smiling as always? Unable to cry and shout like Tamogami, she bit her lip and bore the sad thoughts alone. I crossed in front of Ms. Tsuburaya and pulled another book off Emon’s bookshelf. “Emon always seemed a lot like Kolbaba to me.” I spoke quietly, and she opened her eyes wide in amazement. Because I also wanted to talk about him. I wanted to talk about him with one of the books he loved, The Long, Long Story of the Postman. “Kolbaba, the character who appears in this book, is a postman. He meets some tiny little people who help him with the sorting in the post office late at night, and they teach him that letters written with feeling will be warm to the touch when handled.” She frowned as she listened to me. “One day, he gets a letter that has no address and no stamp. He can’t deliver a letter without an address, but this one is very warm. “Kolbaba goes to consult with the little people and asks if they can read the contents of the letter. When one of them presses the letter to his forehead, he sees that written inside is a proposal from a scatterbrained young man named Frankie to a girl named Marie.” “‘If you like, we could get married. If you still love me, please reply right away. Don’t wait!’” “Kolbaba decides that this letter absolutely must be delivered, no matter what it takes, and he sets out to do just that.” “‘I’m heading out to search for where the young lady lives! Even if it takes me years, even if I have to walk all around the world.’” “So Kolbaba sets out on a long, long journey. And then, after one year and one day, he’s finally able to hand the letter over to Marie.” Emon had been able to understand the feelings of a book by touching its cover with the palm of his hand. Just like Kolbaba and his letters. But that was not the only thing they had in common. “Emon was someone who had always wished from the bottom of his heart to deliver warm books to the people who needed them.” With those kind eyes of his, he told me that a book felt warm when it was happy and that a happy book was a lucky book. He’d hoped he could make all the books in the store warm. He’d wanted to give his customers lucky books. “He told me that even if it took a year and a day or even longer, he wanted to connect people with books like that. And he did. He delivered many books into the hands of the people of this town. “After his long, long delivery journey ends, Kolbaba says the following— “‘I ran around carrying that letter for a year and a day, you know, but there was value in doing it. For you see, I was able to travel here and there throughout the country and see so many things. I visited Plze, Hoice, and even Tabor. My, what a wonderful, beautiful land this is!’” “Kolbaba is carefree and calm, as if it had been no hardship at all to walk the whole length of the country. He says the beautiful sights made the journey worth it all on its own. If you ask me, Emon Koumoto was just the same.” Bookstores as they exist now are headed on a gentle slope toward extinction, along with paper books. And Emon himself had lost his parents early and then his wife and child as well. He had been beset by a brain tumor and given only six months to live. Despite that, he’d smiled gently and promised that he would keep the bookstore going as long as he lived. With perfectly clear eyes, he continued on, peaceful and relaxed, giving the people who visited his shop warm and happy books. Becoming the owner of a bookstore was not something Emon had chosen. It was something he’d inherited, a family business. But he loved books. And he loved people. In this tall and slim three-story shop, he was surrounded by warm books, and he met all the customers who came to visit and struck up conversations with them—Emon must have seen many beautiful and lovely scenes. And I’m sure that he thought to himself— Thank goodness I became a bookseller. There was great value in being born in a bookstore and growing up to run the place. Ms. Tsuburaya looked as if she was holding back tears. She was sitting straight up, pursing her lips as the corners of her eyes grew damp. She looked lonely yet dignified, like the painting that hung on the wall—a sad, elegant sight. Tamogami still had Emon’s handmade picture book pressed against his chest and was quietly hanging his head. Embracing him, Asuka also had her eyes closed in pain. And then there were Emon’s books, lined up on the shelves. They were speaking. Testifying about what kind of person Emon Koumoto had been. “He had really gentle hands.” “He always handled us with deep affection.” “He was sad, unfortunate, and strong.” “Emon smiled happily as he turned my pages.” “He cried when he read me.” “When he read me, he laughed.” “He flipped through my pages again and again.” “He never forgot about me.” “He was such a warm person.” “He was so kind.” “I loved him.” “I loved it when Emon touched me.” “I wanted to make him feel happy for much longer.” “I wanted Emon to read me one last time.” “I wanted to live a long life as his book.” “I loved him.” “I loved him, too, always.” “I loved him.” “I’m so glad Emon read me.” They sounded just like mourners at a wake, solemnly reminiscing about the deceased. He was a deeply loving man. They loved him back. Reverberating like endless ripples in still water, their voices carried on and on. The book I was clutching to my chest, The Long, Long Story of the Postman, also mumbled sadly in an amiable, masculine voice. “You know, I…I watched Emon grow up, from the time he was a little child, tottering around… I really loved him. I doubt there’s another store owner anywhere who would have loved us so purely and treated us so dearly. I’m glad I was born as a book, since the finest reader around turned my pages.” Surrounded by the books’ loving eulogies, Ms. Tsuburaya, Mr. Tamogami, Ms. Asuka, and I all reflected on the Emon Koumoto that we held in each of our hearts. Mr. Tamogami made an official announcement on his webpage that his famous novel, A Funeral for Kanoyama Books, was inspired by the book Emon had written, The Last Bookstore. He also uploaded every page of The Last Bookstore there for public view. This ran in the news along with a report about Koumoto Books, the last bookstore open in a small Tohoku town, closing due to the death of its owner. The story quickly spread across the internet and garnered a lot of attention. So many people tried to buy a copy of A Funeral for Kanoyama Books that the physical book ran out of stock and the publisher had to order an emergency reprinting. Sales of the e-book also skyrocketed, putting it in first place that very day. A television special was put together for the evening news, in which Tamogami promised he would offer all proceeds from subsequent sales of A Funeral for Kanoyama Books to help open a new bookstore in town. And then, it was the final day of business for Koumoto Books. The store filled with people, and not just locals but also visitors from other prefectures who had heard about the closing on the news and came to visit the bookstore they fondly remembered. From early in the morning, people came holding books filled with memories of the shop to have their photos taken with their books and make commemorative signs. Whether they held their book up beside their face and flashed a peace sign or hugged the book tightly, or made a kissing face at it, all the people in the photos beamed in delight. The pictures filled every flatbed display in the shop, but even that wasn’t enough. They were placed all around the register, on the shelves, and even in the bathrooms. It was a magnificent spectacle. The greatest book in the world! This book changed my life! A friend that will last a lifetime! These words and more were written in pink, blue, and gold pen. But I saw one kind of message more than any other. I loved Koumoto Books! I’ll never forget Koumoto Books! Natsu, Kanesada, Emon—thank you so much. Some customers wiped the corners of their eyes as they read the messages, while others sobbed openly, clutching books to their chests and lamenting that the store was really going away. Other customers saw them cry and started sniffling, too. But the great majority of the people were smiling, chatting about their memories of Koumoto Books. Their faces were as cheerful as the multicolored pop signs. Many people purchased a copy of A Funeral for Kanoyama Books from a stack beside the register and spoke nostalgically of days past. “I was here almost twenty years ago for the book signing, too, you know! I wanted to give it another read. Emon looked so happy back then.” A long, long line stretched outside the shop, longer than at the book signing, and the crowd didn’t let up for a moment. Everyone looked happy. Everyone was smiling. Even the crying people were soon wearing tearful smiles as they selected new books from the shelves and displays. Some bought ten books by themselves, and there was even someone who bought fifty and asked that they be delivered to his house. The books that had tightly packed the shelves gradually thinned out. The other part-timers and I were extremely busy, without a second to rest, but we were in high spirits and didn’t feel tired in the slightest. Ms. Tsuburaya was working harder than anyone. The day before, I had confided something in her, and she had looked as if she would cry. “It wasn’t just the books that told me you are the most reliable part-timer here, Ms. Tsuburaya. Emon told me that, too. That’s why, when we first met, I knew immediately, ‘Ah, this woman must be the one he called Minami.’” Her eyes were still a little red, even now. She must have cried a lot the night before, once she was alone. But today, the last day that the store was open, she was briskly giving instructions to the other part-time workers and running around herself, serving customers and stocking shelves. “Ms. Tsuburaya, when you finish there, please go ahead and take a lunch break. There’s still plenty of time left before closing,” I told her. Without making a displeased face as she had earlier, she replied, “I’ll do that. Thanks.” Before she went on break, she looked around the store and mumbled, “…This is the busiest I’ve ever seen Koumoto Books since I started working here. Everyone’s bringing their favorite books with them to the store, and the whole place is buried in colorful signs… It’s just as the boss wrote in The Last Bookstore… I wonder if he knew this day was coming…” Her voice was tinged with an understandable note of sadness. “Koumoto Books will probably end with my generation.” I recalled Emon’s words. “Just as innumerable creatures have gone extinct or evolved on this earth up until now, I think books and bookstores are probably in the middle of their own evolution.” In a quiet voice, he had told me this matter-of-factly. “They’re destined for extinction, unable to keep living on in their current form…” After he had mumbled that in a lonely way, he had smiled gently. I answered Ms. Tsuburaya quietly. “I think he knew the store would close sometime after he died… And that the town would lose its only bookstore… I think he probably had a hunch about it. That’s why he dreamed up the happiest possible ending and tried to write it down, don’t you think?” “The happiest possible…ending?” “On the day of the funeral, the people of the town gathered at the bookstore. “Everyone brought a book that held special memories for them. “And they told one another about their favorite. “Each person made a sign about their title. “The signs were many colors—pink, red, blue, yellow, purple—and all together, they looked like a field of flowers. “‘That book was just delightful!’ “‘This one really surprised me.’ “‘This title, too—I found it quite useful, you know.’ “‘I really loved this book.’ “There were many, many, many such words spoken that day. “The signs swayed in the air above the books, which were all warm and happy. “And they told one another about their favorite books.” Ms. Tsuburaya took another look around with teary eyes at the field of signs blooming about the store and the customers picking out books while reminiscing with one another happily about Koumoto Books—and she smiled slowly, mumbling something to herself. “In that case, I think…the boss’s dream came true…” I’m sure you’re right. The thought seemed to draw her heart up from the depths of her grief. “You know, I think I’m going to lend a hand getting a new bookstore up and running in this town. I think I’d like to keep selling books here.” “When you do, I’ll be sure to come.” Books and bookstores, they’re both headed for extinction. But in this moment, in this place, there are still books here. And there are people selling them. And people coming to buy them. It’s so busy and bright, you would never think today is the last day, the end of the last bookstore in town. And— It was several days after the closing of Koumoto Books. I was visiting the shop for one last good-bye on the morning I was to return to Tokyo. The books that remained after the closing fair had all been returned, and the ones that couldn’t be returned had been donated or collected by secondhand bookstores. All the shelves in the shop were empty. It felt lonesome, but it was also a relief—everything was neat and clean. While he was alive, Emon had made a request of me. He had asked me to listen to the voices of the books that were left in the store after his death. And to speak back to them. “Musubu, you can hear the voices of books and are a good friend to them. So I want you to please give each one my warmest thanks.” That’s why I had come to Koumoto Books. I’d listened carefully to the books that had been Emon’s family and friends. Once everyone had gone home each night, I had walked through every corner of the shop by myself and spoken to the books. “Thank you.” “Good work, everyone.” “Emon and I both hope that wherever you travel after this, there will be some joy waiting for you there.” “Give the people who pick you up and flip through you plenty of amusement, okay? If you do, I’m sure you all will also be happy.” “Never forget that you were once here at Koumoto Books, with an owner who loved you from the bottom of his heart. I want you to be proud of the fact that you come from here.” “Thank you.” “Thank you.” “Take care.” The books also made a subdued fuss. “Koumoto Books was a very happy place!” “I’m so glad I was a Koumoto Books book.” “I loved everyone—the owner, Emon, and all the part-timers, too.” “Ms. Natsu and Mr. Kanesada were also wonderful people!” All of them had been warm without exception. In the short time that I had been at Koumoto Books, the feelings of so many titles had touched me, and I had learned the stories of the people who read them. Of the veterinarian Michijirou and the single picture book that had changed his entire life. Of Akio and Eiko, tied together through the long years by a novel. Of Asuka, marching forward with dignity, holding both an old and a new copy of The Seagull in her heart. Of the middle schoolers Hirotaka and Souta, who even now continued to enjoy the Zorori series that Emon had recommended. Of the long-suffering Tamogami, who had identified with the misdeeds of the minister Dimmesdale in The Scarlet Letter and was now finally able to look forward. Even Ms. Tsuburaya, who carried Emon’s prescription, Alain on Happiness, with her always and who seemed as if she would someday get her wish. When I closed my eyes, an image of Emon’s smiling face floated up in my mind. His eyes were narrowed behind his glasses, smiling broadly as he stroked a book gently with his pale palm. I could almost hear the animated voice of Kanesada, surrounded by children while reading a picture book aloud. Natsu was watching over him with a stern expression. And then a little boy who looked like Emon came over, clutching a book to his chest as he tottered along, looking up at his father with big, round eyes. “Papa, this book is suuuper fun! “I love books—I really do! “When I grow up, I’m gonna run a bookstore just like you, Papa.” Emon’s eyes sparkled as he picked up the little boy, overjoyed. He spoke to his son in a voice overflowing with love and hope. “The books say that they love, love, love you right back, Mirai. They say they’ll be very happy when you’re running the store.” Then he rubbed his face against the boy’s soft cheek, which smelled of milk, and continued with a smile. “I want you to read lots of books and get close with them. Every book in this store will become your friend, Mirai.” “Okay, Papa!” Some people would probably hear the story of the Koumoto family, of Natsu, Kanesada, and Emon, and think they were an unlucky line. But the Koumotos’ story was a long, long one, which I’m sure couldn’t be told in full even by all the books and people who’d come through the shop over the years. Books and bookstores are in the middle of an evolution, and the form in which they currently exist is likely to disappear someday. Like everything we adore, there will come a day when they are all long gone. But that is in the future. In the present, books and bookstores still exist. As long as I’m still alive, I will go on loving books—those heroic, affectionate, and miraculous beings. And I’ll keep on visiting bookstores in order to meet them. When I opened my eyes, the vision of the Koumoto family disappeared, and the only thing I could see was the empty shelves. The only person on the quiet sales floor, I stood there for a while holding a copy of The Field Guide of Extinct Animals. This Field Guide, the one that had snatched away Emon’s life, had been tormented ever since it had been returned from the police station, grieving and moaning. “I killed Emon. “But in the moment of his death, he said this with a smile. “‘Thank you, I loved you all.’” Just as he had told Tamogami that he had always been happy, Emon had faced the end quietly, without resentment or regrets. He probably imagined he was going to meet his wife and son. Up in the sky, he would put the little boy that resembled him so closely up on his knee and turn the pages of a book with gentle hands. The volume I was holding kept on blaming itself, but I told the tome that it wasn’t at fault. It had been telling me all along that it wanted to be thrown away, but when I asked the book to come with me, it responded with a tearful yes. Princess Yonaga, who was always going on about infidelity, was thankfully silent. I’d better get going over to the station, or I’ll miss my train home. The new semester starts the day after tomorrow, and I’ll be a second-year then. Emon had once told me that I was like the tiny little people in the postman’s story, but now, like Kolbaba, who sets out on a long, long journey to deliver the warm letter with no address, I had gotten to see the value in spending time at Koumoto Books. Clutching The Field Guide of Extinct Animals tightly to my chest, I turned out the lights and left the store. In my ears, the final words of The Long, Long Story of the Postman echoed in Emon’s quiet, gentle voice. “Thus, everybody went home happy. “And so, this story, too, has now arrived safely at its final destination.”