Bubbles

Translating Yoshimoto Banana and the Shōjo Girl 

Yoshimoto Banana (b. 1964) by now is one of the most well-known Japanese writers in the English reading world, and enormously famous in Japan. In particular, she is popular among young women, who perhaps identify with Yoshimoto’s female protagonists. Her most popular works were published during the “Bubble” economy, including Bubbles. Her translations introduced a new side of Japan to English readers that had nothing to do with the “orient,” no traces of the masculine texts that had been published in the postwar period by celebrated writers Mishima Yukio, Ōe Kenzaburō, or Kawabata Yasunari. From another perspective, Yoshimoto’s work lies outside the realm of so-called “pure” literature (jun bungaku) and has been categorized as “popular” literature (taishû bungaku). She is an icon of girls’ literature, or shōjo bungaku, a rich, cross-media genre in Japan that has its origins and ideologies in the early twentieth century. 

Kitchen was translated into English in 1993, five years after its publication in Japan in 1988. The short work must have felt like a fresh breeze. The story is perhaps fanciful and immature—yet it is also profoundly emotional. Kitchen is also clearly a story about living in a super metropolis and the paradoxical isolation that accompanies it. Embedded in the narrative are also commercial products that reflect a consumer culture. It describes a contemporary Japanese society that is both economically successful and globalized. Kitchen paved the way for the cultural phenomenon called “Bananamania.”  

Since Kitchen, nine more of Yoshimoto’s novels have been translated into English. Most of these were translated in the nineties, but as Bananamania waned, her translations have also decreased. The last novel to be translated, The Lake, was carried out by Michael Emmerich in 2011, and first written in 2005. Yoshimoto is even now thought of as an eighties’ writer, as though she were a writer of the past, despite the fact that she still writes prolifically. One cannot help but ask, are her stories no longer relevant? The answer is clearly negative for me, as I have chosen to undertake the task of translating Bubbles (1988), a story that still delights me, though I am no longer a member of the targeted demographic.  

 

Bubbles: an effervescent story  

Bubbles was also published in 1988, the same year as Kitchen. The title, originally Utakata, refers to bubbles on the surface of water. Its secondary and related meaning is “transience” or “ephemerality.” Such ephemerality could refer to a fleeting childhood, an absent father, an imagined brother. Yoshimoto’s works always look to the past; Ningyo is forced to face her childhood and the family that perhaps never existed.  

In translating Bubbles, ephemerality was my guide. I attempted to translate the text through the lens of bareness or restrained affect. For Anne Carson, her definition of poetry is grounded in economy—not only an economy of words or letters, but of time as well. In her Marxist conception of temporality, time as money creates both gifts and debts, a schema in which gifts, too, are actually debts. The “gift” of time cannot be repaid, or so we might be led to think. Carson beautifully describes the afterlife of the epigram on the gravestone of “Theodoros” by the poet Simonides: “This man Theodoros, who has lain more than two thousand years in the tomb, is no more finished than you and I are. You and I can clearly perceive a residue of Theodoros loose in this room like a perfume” (15). Perfume, or “fragrance,” is the third metaphor in Carson’s vision of poetry, beside time and money. The fragrance is that which undoes the debt; it remains after commercial transactions have been completed. For Carson, this “fragrance” is what distinguishes poetry and prose. 

Almost certainly, Carson would not consider Bubbles as “poetry.” Nonetheless, I invoke her for my own investment in economy, or bareness. For me, the sentences of Bubbles are lyrical and invite me to linger on them. I give the text my time, and in return, I receive a fragrance, a profit. While previous English translations of Yoshimoto express a youthful, colloquial voice, I have found that they often exaggerate the immaturity of the narrator and style, attributing to her (usually a female narrator) constant contractions and slang. Certainly, the narrator of Bubbles, Ningyo, also projects youth, but she is simultaneously mature and insightful. Thus, in my translation, I tried to write in a more formal, detached style that I believe more faithfully represents the source style.  

At the heart of the story is a charming romance between the narrator, Ningyo, and her maybe-half-brother, Arashi. In many ways, Bubbles explores many of the themes present in Kitchen. Ningyo is a young woman with an atypical family and complicated love life. In fact, Yoshimoto’s oeuvre could be said to revisit the same themes in different forms, issues of the modern family and romance. The city, too, plays a crucial role in defining the backdrops in many of Yoshimoto’s stories. Tokyo is bustling, often beautiful, and at times indifferent. And, like a true city, it is where serendipitous encounters occur. Ningyo’s and Arashi’s first meeting takes place by chance in Shinjuku, as Ningyo is admiring flowers in a shop window.  

Ephemerality is also in the material text itself. In English, we might refer to Bubbles as a novella. In Japanese, the short length of the novel is not particularly extraordinary, and it is a form that Yoshimoto has embraced throughout her career. As such, the paperback is small, the size of a postcard, and light. Moreover, the pages themselves are light—short paragraphs make way for a great deal of white space. The thin-lined printed text appears more grey than black.  

And then there is the language. I have found it to be difficult to characterize Yoshimoto’s language without being reductive. Perhaps I might say that the sentences are deceptively simple. Sentences that are alternately or simultaneously ephemeral and profound. Yoshimoto’s writing is often described as “flowery,” as though it were a derogatory term. The word is also used dismissively to describe the larger body of girls’ literature. There is also an unspoken implication that floweriness reaches beyond the written text and affects the narrative plot: It is not merely the writing style that is flowery, but the content, too. Surprisingly, it is difficult to pinpoint any so-called floweriness in Bubbles. The sentences are quite direct. There are many descriptive passages, but since when has a male writer been described as flowery for his descriptive passages? 

The scent of flowers resides at times in the narrative events. Ningyo’s and Arashi’s chance encounter in Shinjuku, for example, could have been pulled directly from a girls’ manga. And to top it off, the two buy cosmos flowers to mark the occasion. The specific species is possibly a reference to Yoshiya Nobuko (1896–1973), a pioneering writer of girls’ literature who wrote dozens of short stories, all titled by the names of flowers, including cosmos. However, these moments in Bubbles are sparse.  

In a sense, I also see floweriness in the peculiar temporality by which Bubbles is guided. There is rarely a Proustian obsession with details and minutes. Rather, the story moves easily like leisurely flowing water. I think of Erich Auerbach’s well-known readings of the Old Testament and The Odyssey, of their respective visions of reality, so entirely alien to each other. Between the two categories, bareness and meticulousness, Bubbles leans toward bareness. In the following passage, Ningyo wakes up and goes to Shinjuku: 

私はつい十二時間も眠ってしまい、目覚めたら窓の外がすっかり夕焼けだったのでびっくりした。起こしてくれる人がいなくて歯止めがないとこんなにも眠れるものかと思うとものすごく不毛な気分になり、うつろな気持ちでシャワーを浴びた。窓から夜になってゆく街並みをぼんやりながめていたらなんとなく都会が見たくなり、電車に乗って新宿へ出た。(20-21) 

I had accidentally slept for over twelve hours, and when I woke up, to my astonishment, the sun was already setting outside the window. No one had woken me up and I mused that without a brake, it was possible to sleep endlessly like this. I felt terribly unproductive and with an empty sensation took a shower. It had become evening, and as I gazed absentmindedly at the continuing townscape through the window, for some reason I suddenly wanted to see the city, so I rode the subway and got off at Shinjuku (8-9). 

Several events occur here in the space of a couple of sentences. Yet, the pacing does not seem rushed. On the contrary, it feels rather relaxed. The sheer effortlessness by which Ningyo’s actions propel her to Shinjuku is extraordinary. And the emotion she feels is a mild depression, but it is not dwelled on. Simply, she is “empty.” The point does not need belaboring. The passage lacks the mundanity and minutiae of “real life.” Any Deleuzian sensation, a physical, piercing sensation, is absent. In reality, one does not wake up and suddenly arrive in Shinjuku. But in the universe of Bubbles, it is possible, expected, and quite normal. This naiveté to me reads like a kind of temporal floweriness. But the language itself is far from flowery—they are rather minimal.  

This short exploration of “floweriness,” which is supposed to characterize girls’ literature, has shown that the descriptor is hardly stable. In short, Bubbles both does and does not express itself in the language of flowers. 

In this translation, I did not attempt to resuscitate a flowery, ornamental language that was never truly there in the first place. Instead, I attempted to apply a sort of “ephemerality” to the language. By this, I mean that I wanted to transfer the lightness of Yoshimoto’s style without making it frivolous in English. Ningyo is a young woman; she is both mature and childish. This is particularly reflected in the difference of registers between her narrative thoughts and her spoken words.  Spoken language is always a performance; for Ningyo, it is that of a girlish personality. But in her narration, which we are privy to, she is mostly formal and thoughtful.  

The following passage demonstrates casual moments both in dialogue and in narration. Arashi describes to Ningyo the “boring” stories that he wants to write. In Japanese, this colloquial style is indicated by the repetition of toka, or “something like.” I transferred this immaturity by inflecting his speech style with markers of youth such as “like,” “gets,” and “stuff”:  

「もっと、退屈なもの。幼なじみでとなり同士に住んでる二人が成長して結婚するとか、雨の日に拾った小犬が大きくなるまで、とか、そういうの。」嵐は言った。(39) 

“Something more boring. Like, about two childhood friends who live by each other and grow up and get married, or about a dog who’s thrown away on a rainy day and gets big—stuff like that,” Arashi said (21). 

Of course, there is also the sheer absurdity of his story ideas themselves, by which I can quite easily imagine a referent. Ningyo also speaks in a juvenile way, though not to the same extent as Arashi. The two frequently speak in fragments, as Arashi does above. In these conversations, Yoshimoto (and I, as well) attempt to hide the artifice of written conversation by assigning to it colloquial mannerisms. 

Following Arashi’s remark, Ningyo suppresses her honest and amusing opinion of his stories. Here, I italicized the moment of personal reflection, which functions similarly to speech: 

本当に退屈そうね、と言うと失礼だと思って私は質問を変えた。(39) 

That really does seem boring, I thought. But it would be bad-mannered to say that, so I changed my question (21). 

The italics indicate that the narration voices Ningyo’s thoughts apart from a third-person omniscient narration. The formal change I made, italicizing, was an effective way of conveying strongly a first-person thought. I hesitated on this decision, but I do not necessarily view it as a violation of the source text, Ningyo’s thought is written as though it were a spoken quote. To write the thought without italics, and also as a more literal translation, I could have written: “If I were to say that it really did sound boring…” This, too, is a perfectly fine translation, but it has the undesired effect of muting a strong, individual voice.  

In contrast, the following passage illustrates Ningyo’s pondering mind, unspoken. Although a first person narrates, it feels like more than Ningyo herself, like a magnified first person, a looming narrator hovering over the text: 

私ははっとして嵐を見上げた。彼はなんだか不思議そうな、釈然としない顔をしていた。小さい子供のような頼りない表情だった。私もその場面を想像してみた。父と母と嵐と私で、たとえばあの汚い家の、大きなテーブルで。それは悪夢のように不自然でもあり、決してかなわない夢のように明るく温かい家族の肖像のようでもあった。(43) 

Surprised, I looked up at Arashi. He had a strange look on his face, as though arrested by an unsolvable problem. An expression like that of a small child’s, unreadable. I tried to imagine the scene as well. My father, mother, Arashi, and I, perhaps in that chaotic house, sitting at a large table. Unnatural, like a bad dream. But also a dream that was not unbearable. Like a bright, warm family portrait (24). 

In contrast to the above dialogue, the tone here is entirely solemn. Ningyo holds complex feelings regarding Arashi and her parents. She is not concerned with expressing complete sentences; the light fragments, both in Japanese and in English, reflect her conflicted imagination.  

Translator’s cut: the shōjo connection 

Girls’ literature in Japan must always take into account girls’ manga, or shōjo manga. Shōjo manga is recognizable for its beautiful characters, starry eyes, experimental paneling, flowered backgrounds, drifting words, and emotional registers. The genre is often contrasted against its counterpart, boys’ manga (shōnen manga), in which characters are often more concerned about external victories than internal troubles. The illustrations rely on action lines and more austere panel movement. For example, in shōjo manga, where a beautiful figure might traverse numerous panels without a clear connection to the narrative, in shōnen manga, contrastingly, such “useless” decorations are rarely visited, and characters mainly remain within their panels. But for the shōjo plot, these elaborate elements are precisely what comprise the genre. Adaptations from shōjo manga to anime frequently maintain these tropes.  

While this connection would have no need for explanation in Japan, the shōjo escapes from the English translation. Even without illustrations in the source text, of which there are none, readers would be familiar with Yoshimoto’s reigning place in the universe of the shōjo. In contrast, the well-known Grove Press edition of Kitchen depicts an Asian woman on the cover—a photograph, not a manga character. One could easily read the English Kitchen and remain oblivious to its transmedial connections.  

Rather than place a random photo of an Asian woman on the cover, I believe it would be far more fitting to illustrate the cover. Today, far more than in the nineties and early two thousands, young female readers of English are well acquainted with Japanese popular culture, and would hardly be alienated by a manga-style cover. Actually, it might be a lure. Thus, I imagine a version of my translation that exists in a shōjo world, designed by a fan for fans. This translator’s cut makes explicit the relationship between shōjo prose fiction and manga. Each page has a distinct design that relies on the aesthetics of shōjo manga, which itself is highly influenced by 1920s art nouveau. In a move inspired by fanfiction, Ningyo and Arashi are visually depicted by Michiru Kaioh and Haruka Tenno—also known as Sailor Neptune and Sailor Uranus. Michiru and Haruka were explicitly lesbian in Japanese versions of Sailor Moon, but their relationship in American broadcasts was censored so that it changed from lovers to cousins. Even when depicted as being in a romantic relationship, the two took on heteronormative roles: Michiru as feminine girl and Haruka as handsome boy. My reimagining of Bubbles as a lesbian love story is not as outrageous as it might seem; gender ambiguity has long been a richly explored topic in shōjo narratives. 

A frequent device in manga is the insertion of “sidebars” in which the artist writes directly to her readers. This artist is usually a character playing a performance, most often that of the lazy, cat-lady illustrator who is always behind deadlines and being scolded by her editor. These sidebars are playful and allow for a more intimate, behind-the-scenes reading experience. I have carried the sidebar over to my translation of Bubbles by inhabiting the role of a fan-translator. In these “corners,” as I call them, I am not a serious graduate student but a typical fan, still immature. This experiment is a work of excess and self-indulgence. The project is fanciful and childish; it is shōjo.  

 

Works Cited 

Carson, Anne. “Economy, Its Fragrance.” Artists Forum. 69 (1997): 14-16. Print. 

Yoshimoto Banana. Kitchen. Trans. Megan Backus. New York: Grove Press, 1993. Print.  

---. Utakata. Tokyo: Shinchosha, 1988. Print. 

 

 

Bubbles 

Yoshimoto Banana 

Arashi and I kissed just once. 

Since this is Japan maybe that would be considered normal, but if this were another country that sort of thing would be just short of the friends-only zone. Soon afterward he went off far away. Whether or this this is love, I am not sure. I really do not know.  

All the same, after I grew to have feelings for Arashi I knew that love was not cherry blossoms and fireworks. 

It is like the bottom of the sea. 

The earth is stirred by the flowing current of the white sand and, sitting down, I am mesmerized by the transparent, far-off blue of the sky, visible through the clear water. Down here, sad lives are all the same.  

Even if I shut my eyes and run away, or aim for a completely different place, my feelings return here after a struggle. This place is always so quiet, like a dream, and because he is always here I never wake up; I want to continue sleeping in this state forever.  

But the real Arashi will always be more precious. Looking at each other, eye to eye, and carrying the sea in our hearts, we go on with life. 

My name is Toriumi Ningyo—Mermaid Bird-sea.   

The first time I had ever heard of Arashi was when I asked my mother about the history of my rather bizarre name. That was around the time I had just moved up to elementary school. It was a cold, cold winter’s night. When I went to say good night to my mother, I saw that she was in front of the stove hugging her knees. For some reason, the image of her back gave off a somber feeling. 

“What’s wrong, Okāsan?” I tried to ask in a smooth voice, just like I had heard in a computer commercial. 

“Ningyo, you’re still awake?” My mother turned and asked with a smile. Because it was her usual smiling face, I felt relieved. 

“Okāsan, why do I have such a strange name?” I asked. My friends had asked me about my name. She laughed and explained. 

“Your father and I wanted to give you all our affection, and we wanted you to be loved by all the creations on earth—by the birds, oceans, humans, and fish—so we threw them all into your name.  And I wanted you to become a girl like the Little Mermaid, who would give her life for the person she loved.”  

All this from my mother, who in all earnestness said these seemingly ludicrous yet real things with a serious look. At the time, my mother’s expression was shining and exquisitely beautiful. For this reason, I adored her words.  

“I see,” I said. “Okāsan, was he sick a while ago?” 

“Yes, your father,” my mother’s eyes rapidly darkened once again.  

This again?  

I hated the man who was my father tremendously. When a person like him receives a fortune he becomes a black sheep. My father squandered the assets left by his parents and lived his life as he saw fit ever since he was young. After his marriage, he abandoned his work and spent his hours in a deserted house of a neighboring city. My mother stayed as my father’s lover and gave birth to me without marrying. If I were forced to put it into words, my mother’s position is probably that of a mistress. Since I had never lived together with my father, the occasional times I saw him, though he had not even consumed any alcohol, I thought he was like a drunken giant who spoke with a booming voice. To a child’s mind, he was in any case, simply a terrifying man.  

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked, furrowing my brows. 

“Don’t make such a face. Remember you are a mermaid. You don’t like him, do you?” My mother laughed with an amused expression, then continued. “So Ningyo. How would you feel about having an older brother?” Because my mother and I were living together, she told me everything. Sometimes she said things that I, a child, could not understand. But even if I did not understand the full meaning of my mother’s words, I sensed their connotations through their colors. Bright colors, dark colors, gleeful colors, sad colors—the ways in which a child forms thoughts. And at that time, those words reverberated clearly in the ocean of my pure heart. They were like silent ripples propagating wider and wider. 

 “You mean a younger brother?” I asked. 

A baby that comes after me would be a younger brother, after all. 

“No, not a younger brother. I can’t have children anymore… I… A long time ago, when your father and I were acquaintances, he worked at a model company for a short while. There was a person then, a friend of mine called Masako, and she was also a friend of your father’s. But that person abandoned her own child and ran off abroad somewhere, or so we heard. Quiz time, Ningyo. Where do you think she left the baby?” asked my mother merrily. 

“How would I know? Tell me,” I was eager to hear the answer, so I replied a bit irritated. 

“The garden in your father’s house,” she replied. 

“You mean a boy?” I asked in bewilderment. 

“That’s right. He’s no cat. He’s really a child though he looks just like an animal. I’m thinking of taking care of him, but if he is the child of your father and Masako, it might be difficult for me—that’s what I think, at any rate. You might ask, if your father denies that the child is his, why did Masako leave the child at the garden of his house? According to his words it’s because he’s reliable.” 

The raised eyes of my mother’s profile were illuminated red by the hot stove. I was quite indifferent to my mother’s distress, and more excited about “the abandoned child.” Already captivated by him in my heart, I went to my mother’s side. Even now outside the window the rainy hail kept falling, and my mother took the cardigan off her shoulders, wrapping it around me.  

“Looks like tonight is going to be cold,” she said. I mumbled a reply. She laid my head on her lap and leaned her neck forward to look at me. “What should we do?” she asked. 

“What’s he called? That boy,” I inquired into the name of the woman’s child, with a wondrous feeling that perhaps we might soon come to live together.  

“Arashi,” said my mother. “I think he’s about two years older than you. He’s at your father’s house now.” 

 

  

“At the burrough house?” From the few times that I had been there, I tried to imagine someone living with my father. 

“Yes. What’s more, for your father to open up his house like that is unusual. I don’t know what the legal situation would be if the child grew up in that house,” she said. 

“I feel bad for him,” I said. “What does it feel like, to be left alone?” 

“I wonder if he won’t feel resentment far into the future. I heard that he was clinging to the gate, bearing the pain without letting out a sound or crying. He was gripping a diamond ring of Masako’s mother’s—a memento of sorts. Of course she’d planned for it to be used for child-raising expenses, but of course that’s crude of her. If a child can be brought up with the cost of a diamond, then there would be no need for the police, would there?”   

“What do you mean, the police?” I asked. 

“You’re too young to understand, Ningyo,” my mother smiled. “Maybe after you wait two or three years you can ask those questions.” 

“Uh huh,” I nodded. My mother, rather silly at times, was a peculiar person.   

After that incident, the dilemma of the moment passed and in the end, the boy named Arashi came to grow up in my father’s house. Because I never visited there, I was certain that there would never be an occasion to meet my perhaps-half-brother. Nevertheless, the image of a boy clinging to the gate and crying, and the awful emotions associated with that event were all permanently etched on my childish heart.  

 

Quite suddenly, it came about that my father was to leave for Nepal. He was going to see a friend who owned a hotel and as was always the case I never knew when he would return. Every time something was different. This time, it was the fact that my mother slowly made it known that she would be accompanying him. I was now nineteen, attending university, and the season had just turned into late summer. 

“I mean, Okāsan, you’ve never even been out of Japan.” When I heard my mother’s resolution, I spoke with surprise. This was altogether unexpected news.  

“Yes, it’s supposed to be a nice tourist hotel, and when your father is busy I can just stay in the room. But more importantly, I’m worried about you, Ningyo. Are you going to be okay by yourself for a while?” she asked with an anxious look. 

“Yeah, have a good time,” I said. But shouldn’t I be the one worrying about you, Okāsan…? Together with my father with whom my mother had never formally lived, high up in the mountains, surrounded by the customs of a foreign country, how would she be able to get along? But my mother also probably wanted to experience adventures, from time to time. Clearly, there was something profound in her decision that I could not doubt. I held her in high esteem for it.  

The shock of finding out about this news was immense.  

“So why are you suddenly bothering about a vacation?” I asked. Even after entering the final stage of preparations and performing a checklist of my mother’s luggage, into which she had anxiously crammed everything she could, it was a hectic period. If I let my eyes wander for a second, my mother would interject: “a backup towel,” “a backup for the backup,” “and another backup…” until she had thoroughly exhausted herself with worry. To some extent, that anxiety was pitiful; she looked like a person who had resolved to journey to the ends of the earth.  

“Well, you’re already a college student, and from now on you’re going to become more and more independent. At times, you’ll see that if you don’t dive into something whole-heartedly, you’ll find yourself growing old…” my mother answered. I looked at my mother and saw that she was making a memo in the guidebook under the section “Time Zone Conversion.” 

“You’re really committed to this,” I said. Still harboring feelings of worry, I picked up a photo book of Nepal lying at my feet and flipped through the pages.  

I saw an expanse of green quietly stretching across the foot of a mountain; a crowd of people and horses on a dusty road; a reddish-brown street on which splendidly hued forms of gods  

stood frozen in time. A stream of inhabitants lined up toward the mountain; the walls of the temples shaded with an ancient coloring. The hotel that my father and mother were to stay at had been photographed in a small section. On the opposite page there were a distinctly clear sky and white mountains, the color of spider webs, all silently existing.  

What a strange feeling, really. 

“Okāsan, are you rea——lly going to go and live here?” I asked, absentmindedly looking at the pictures.  

“That’s right,” she said with a tone I couldn’t quite put my finger on.  

“I see,” I sank into silence. Although I thought that I had been looking for my true feelings within the books spread out on the floor, there was nothing of the sort inside me, and it was not just restricted to Nepal.  

For my entire life I had lived with my mother, and because I always minded things by myself, I was under the impression that I was mature for my years. The same was remarked by the people around me, and I’ve continued to live like this. But ever since I was a child, I knew that my mother was constantly in the middle of a fog, and I was not in the same place as her. Whether she was in my father’s house or in Nepal, the emptiness of my true feelings for her stayed the same. It was the invention of a latchkey child’s loneliness—the so-called “wisdom of life.” What I mean by that is that when I turned my eyes toward my mother standing alone, my father, and my father’s house, I felt an absolute loneliness, as if they were all beyond my reach. And because my father was paying for our living expenses, I completely turned away from him and simply lived my life at home, waiting for my mother. Looking at myself from this perspective, I was surprised—I had turned nineteen years old and yet the latchkey child still remained within me. I felt like I was in the midst of darkness and the window was just barely open, letting in a crack of light. Because the window was somewhat tall, when I looked up into it, the angle noticeably changed and I could see a reflected landscape of the world. Suddenly, upon seeing the scenery of human life passing by, I thought more than ever that it was incredibly alive and frightening. And yet I could not take my eyes off of it. The feeling was abhorrent, but I was certain that it wold remain with me into the future. 

Although I did not understand everything, for the first time ever, I thought that it would be good if something in my life were to change, while at the end of that summer, I saw my mother off to Kathmandu.  

So this is a part of my small story. Incited by my mother’s trip, I abruptly awoke from a long sleep.  

 

 

My mother departed and, being left alone, the apartment in which I had frequently felt like a trapped person in a cramped room was now very spacious.  Moreover, the place to which she had gone off was too far away and I could not even call her on a whim with questions. I began knitting an autumn sweater for the first time, but I had no idea how to do it and quit. Soon afterward, with so much time on my hands, I became bored all the time and so I remodeled the kitchen into a darkroom and became absorbed in photography. Without preparing much, I would get on a train headed for the country and spend my time in the fields, taking close-ups of old people or horses’ asses and developing them into artsy shots, deriving a satisfaction from it.  

I met Arashi by chance on one of those days.  

I had accidentally slept for over twelve hours, and when I woke up, to my astonishment, the sun was already setting outside the window. No one had woken me up and I mused that without a brake, it was possible to sleep endlessly like this. I felt terribly unproductive and with an empty sensation took a shower. It had become evening, and as I gazed absentmindedly at the continuing townscape through the window, for some reason I suddenly wanted to see the city, so I rode the subway and got off at Shinjuku.  

The sky paled wondrously into a clear blue. It was a moderately warm night. The air still carried the green fragrance of summer. When I finished eating dinner, I walked around the west and south corners of the mall. The shop displays ran along the sloping hill, and I wandered aimlessly looking at them all in a row, suspended in the night. The brilliant, dazzling displays continued on, selling various things. And people were everywhere. The center plaza was bustling as usual, and the wind blew across the dwarfed sky encircled by endless buildings. The benches were overflowing with couples, and the ice cream shops, as usual, were filled with girls. As I passed through the place, I wondered where so many people could have come from. I thought of these people, each one living her own life and having troubles. Surveying the vicinity around me with my eyes that had just woken up, I thought that right now, I was a traveler. So many people, who did not know one another.  

On a continuing passage of the station grounds, there was a flower shop. On the other side of the window, flowers ranging a wide gamut of colors were illuminated by a light, and their spirits radiated wonderfully. I wanted those flowers that had caught my eyes, and for a second, I stood still looking into the window.  

He passed my back and recognized me, extraordinarily. I sensed deeply that someone I knew had just walked by, so I turned my head. He too turned around, but it was some guy who I had never seen before. He was a spirited youth, shining brightly with sincere eyes and short hair.  

“Hey—aren’t you Toriumi Ningyo?” he asked with a startled expression on his face.  

“Yes,” I answered, surprised as well. At the time, I was intoxicated by the beautiful sound of my name being articulated. No, not because my name was beautiful, but because his clear and low voice was extraordinary. As if his words had converged into one with his soul, it was a deep sound. I looked at him, wondering who this person could possibly be.  

“Wow, I see,” he said beaming with a smile.   

“Sorry, who are you?” I said. 

“I’m Takada Arashi. Don’t you know me? I’ve been living with your dad up to now.  Well, even if he’s gone off to God knows where now.” 

“Oh, you’re Arashi?” Although it was our first meeting and he had used the informal omae to address me, I was not offended at all. Even before I asked who he was, I had a feeling that I knew him. I did not feel the slightest bit uncomfortable.  

“Yeah,” he nodded smiling. His pointed eyes shone deeply. 

“How did you recognize me?” I asked. 

“There are pictures in the house. Pictures of your mom and you. They were taken when you were still in elementary school, but you haven’t changed at all and I knew it had to be you.” 

“Because I haven’t grown up at all,” I answered, laughing like an idiot. Somehow, I felt instinctively that he must be a good person. Glancing at him, some people might initially feel uncomfortable by his forceful, candid manner of speaking. However, I was pleasantly surprised. Although I had held a negative bias toward “that boy who was raised by your father,” as though he had been raised by a monkey or a wolf, he was perfectly polite in his manners, despite having been brought up by our father. 

“It’s a miracle we’ve never met each other before, considering we live in neighboring cities.” 

“Even though we’re siblings.” 

“Yeah. It’s a pretty crazy coincidence, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah, if you hadn’t turned around, there’s no way I would have recognized you,” Arashi said, gesturing toward the flower shop.  

“Shall we buy some flowers to mark the occasion?” 

And so I received a bunch of cosmos flowers from the flower shop. In an elated mood, I said nonsensically, “This must be an encounter of the language of flowers.” 

“Definitely. By the way, if you’re going back home now, let’s ride the train together since we’re headed in the same direction,” he smiled.  

In those moments as we conversed, I became increasingly amazed by the sudden transformation in my world.  

Before I knew it, loneliness crept into my heart in my unguarded state. It felt like the blue that reflects off the surface of the window when suddenly awoken by the dawn. During that sort of midday, no matter how sunny it becomes, no matter how many stars emerge, somewhere in my heart that clear blue remains. When my mother, with whom I had lived continuously, suddenly disappeared from my life, I felt as though I had become pale, transparent. But Arashi’s clear outline, the isolation he endured for half of his life, gave me the power to eradicate the loneliness within me. 

As the two of us rode the shaky train together, I found myself thinking every three seconds, if our blood were examined we might turn out to be siblings. And for some reason, the thought disappointed me.  

The express train rushed through the night. Although we had just met, he talked about his days at our father’s house as though we were old friends. 

“There’s a lot of cash hidden in the shoe closet in our house. So I tell myself that I can use that money when I’m in trouble. When I was a kid, if the old man didn’t return home for a few days, I’d wonder if he’d died somewhere, and what would become of me, and I’d get so scared. But I got used to my freedom growing up and it became fun.”   

I observed Arashi intently as he spoke. 

Narrow, intelligent forehead; large, sagacious eyes; wild, untamed hair; and broad, solid shoulders. Although he was not particularly tall, determination seemed firmly manifested throughout his body. Everything was packed tightly into him, and I received a very dry impression of him. 

“What are you staring at?” Arashi asked. The train rattled and shook as it turned a corner. The scenery was embedded with neon as billboards flashed by the window. The train interior was white and bright, and the passengers heading home all looked quietly sleepy.  

“I was wondering if we share any similar traits,” I said. 

Our two faces reflected in the window, we gazed at the night rushing past us through the glass. 

“I wonder. Maybe we really are siblings,” Arashi said. “Even though the old man said that we weren’t related, maybe your mom stopped us from meeting because she was worried about that. Well, somehow we met anyway. I always thought it was weird, and I wanted to meet you. Anyway, you don’t look at all like the old man, so that’s a relief.” 

“There’s no daughter that looks like her father,” I laughed. The cosmos flowers emanated a sweet fragrance as I hid my red cheeks in them. 

“Maybe you’re right, this time,” Arashi said, his head lowered. “Come over to our house soon.” 

“Is it as messy as it’s always been?” 

“Yeah, as usual it’s a complete mess. Have you been there before?” Arashi asked brightly.  

“Yeah, before you started living there, I visited three times. When I was young, I disliked Otōsan a lot, and I’d cry whenever he raised his voice. I think that’s why Okāsan didn’t take me over there much. Even now, it doesn’t seem like she goes over there a lot,” I said.  

“You can get used to anything if you live with it long enough,” Arashi smiled. The speed of the train fell, and we slid on the rails toward home. We had arrived at the station by the house where Arashi lived.  

“Oh, we’re here. Well, see you later.”  

The doors opened, and Arashi stepped off the train quickly.  

The train picked up speed, and as I watched him walking toward his home until he was nothing but a shadow, disappointment arose within me. I wanted to hear more of his voice. His presence had left a deep impression on my heart, as though he were a part of my family, or a new person I liked. My heart skipped lightly at those two distinct thoughts, matching the rhythm of the train for a long time. 

I wanted to meet him again whenever possible. But then again, perhaps it would be better not to meet him if it turned out that our blood matched. It was only a small matter, but once it popped into my mind it remained. 

 

 

One day, not having spoken to my mother in a long time, I started to wonder what she was up to in Kathmandu and so I called her. Once, when she arrived, and just once more afterward, she had asked about my health and the house in a bright voice, but afterward she seemed to stop worrying. For some reason, when I called and spoke to her for just three minutes, I would worry about the cost of the call, and my hand would shake as I held the receiver. I could not even get used to the voice on the phone saying, how to make international calls. Finally, I was able to reach the hotel and gave them my mother’s name, but the person who picked up the phone was my father. 

When I heard his low voice say “Hello?” all I could say in response was a stupid “Huh?” 

“What do you mean, ‘huh’? Which mermaid shop is this?” 

My father’s booming voice filled the distance between us. I could hear him as though I were there.  

“This call’s expensive, so enough with the boring jokes. How’s Okāsan?” 

My short-tempered attitude came from my nervousness. Making an international call, talking to my father for more than a cursory call, they were both firsts for me.  

“Your mother, huh. She’s weak, so the air of the high altitude doesn’t go so well with her, and she’s been in bed constantly,” my father said, laughing.  

“Is it serious?” I asked, suddenly feeling anxious.  

“Don’t go and be so overprotective of her. It’d be better if you trained yourself a little. If something happens I’ll tell you, I’ll let you know,” my father said. 

“Are you actually taking care of her?” I added in a short-tempered tone.  

“Well of course I’m taking care of her. I’ve been thinking and reflecting that she sure is a woman who requires a lot of maintenance. How about you come on over here and get some exercise or something? That skinny body is too small even for a kid. Well, this call’s getting pricey. Hanging up.” 

“Wait a second,” without thinking I called out before the phone could hang up. I could hear my own heartbeat. My mouth became dry. “I have something I want to ask you.” 

“Spit it out.” 

“Please, don’t lie. Well, the guy named Arashi who lives at your house, is he really your son? Tell me the truth. Okāsan’s being quiet about it,” I said. I was surprised at the extent to which I felt relieved upon asking this question.  

“I expected you’d ask that question sooner or later. So you two met each other, huh? Escaping your parents’ gaze,” he said acutely.  

“It was just a coincidence.” My reply sounded like a fake excuse and my face reddened.  

“Good grief, your mother often told me you were a fast one.” My father’s tone was solemn, and because it sounded as though he were upset I felt dejected.   

“All right, that’s enough. My health’s going to go bad,” I said. It was because I had just heard that my mother had tried to keep me and Arashi separated.  

“It’s shock therapy,” my father laughed. “All of you, just who the hell do you think I am? From now on I won’t say anything but lies. You know, that same question was asked to me just yesterday by Arashi himself.” 

“Huh?” I was startled. Suddenly, it seemed like the depths of my heart were aligning with reality.  

“I’ll say it again. I didn’t do it with that kid’s mother, Masako. Not once. Her hand? Didn’t even hold it. So there’s no chance in hell that a brat could have come out. That woman didn’t have my kind of sex appeal. As for whose kid Arashi is, I’m guessing that even he doesn’t have a clue. Throwing him away at my place, it was probably because I had money, and she wanted to make a scene in front of your mother. Unlike myself, that woman doesn’t have an ounce of kindness in her. Anyway, I’ll be honest, she was pretty so I did her a favor. I must have been drunk or something. But in the end, she didn’t make me. So, it’s all right. Might be awkward, but you two can go at it and it wouldn’t be a problem,” my father spoke.  

“You don’t have to explain everything so candidly…” I replied, disturbed. 

“Don’t be putting on airs, young lady,” my father laughed. Between my father and me, I felt as though this was our first intimate talk of any sort, from the day I was born. He’s being pretty honest, isn’t he? I thought, stunned—more honest than I had ever expected. (Even if I also felt that being honest is nothing special). At any rate, in terms of morality my father’s philosophy was consistent. Otōsan isn’t lying, I believed.  

“Otōsan,” I inquired. “Do you treat Okāsan like this, too?” 

“Of course. Well, then.” He hung up the phone abruptly. For a few moments, I was filled with strange emotions, and sat with my hand on the phone, ruminating on the meaning of the conversation.   

The trepidation, the joyful feeling of having had the first, honest conversation with my father. The difficulty of breathing from nervousness. So I’m still a child. Despite my constant efforts, I’m still so immature. So I thought. And, as was expected—the circumstances surrounding my mother were darkening. 

That clear-eyed youth and I were actually not “older brother” and “younger sister,” even if we were to live together as a family. Arashi had been troubled about me, had even asked Otōsan about our blood connection.  

I began to understand my confused emotions. The last one, especially, made delicate, sweet emotions overflow within my heart. I felt brilliantly effervescent. Without my mother, living alone, the house became increasingly a world suited to my every whim. For the time being, I felt frozen, like one of the flags of all nations standing in a row in photos after being developed. Actually, I had been thirsty for a long time, but being wholly unable to calm down from my ecstatic feelings, I gave up. Scattered candles illuminated everything; the light created numerous pale shadows; all of our photo books were piled atop the rug like mountains. 

Thinking about the very beginning scene, I could discern extraordinarily clearly everything about the me of that time. With just a push of my palm, everything could be enlarged, moved—I had such thoughts. Anything and everything, all the minute things as well, it seemed like they were all open to me. The cosmos flowers that Arashi had bought for me bloomed softly in a tall, glass vase I liked. 

I called Arashi at once. 

“Hello? This is Ningyo.” 

“Oh ho, it’s my sister,” Arashi answered, apparently in high spirits. 

“Is it really okay if I come over?” I asked. 

“Yeah, any time is okay. Tomorrow’s good, today’s good.” 

“Okay. It’s already getting late today, so I’ll drop by tomorrow after school. Is that all right?” I spoke naturally as though the two of us had been in contact for a long period.  

“Yeah, great. You remember the place?” Arashi asked. 

“Yeah, it’s on top of the hill. I think I’ll be okay. I’ll know when I get there. Well, I’ll see you at five o’clock then.” 

While talking, I recalled the scene of a childhood memory. A house which, as a child, I had thought of as frightening, decaying, with ivy-covered walls. An iron gate, black and heavy, a detached gate lamp. Stepping over broken glass fragments, climbing stone steps buried under dead leaves—at long last to arrive at the entrance. The unmaintained garden had transformed into a jungle, and several cats roamed about.  

“That reminds me, I have some interesting news for you,” Arashi said. 

“Yeah, I think I do, too,” I laughed.  

 

 

 

The next day, the clouds steadily grew heavier during my classes. I’ll be in trouble if it rains since I didn’t bring an umbrella… I thought, getting off at the station in the next town over and exiting outside. As expected, large drops of rain began dropping down. The ground was quickly stained. A powerful rain.   

Being such an abrupt event, crowds of people milled about the ticket gate area noisily, gaya gaya, and the flow of people began to stagnate. Somehow it reminded me of a panic movie and I was amused. For a moment, I stood lost in front of a store. Clear raindrops fell vigorously from a sky covered in heavy, grey layers. The rain resounded, zaaa zaaa. The rain would not stop any time soon, it seemed. The feet of people coming and going hastened, bata bata, and the vinyl sheets stacked in front of the south market began increasing one by one, like shōgi chess pieces being thrown down. I was a little lost, but I could make it in five minutes if I ran. Resolving myself, I flew out into the midst of the rain. 

Almost immediately, my exposed clothes and hair became soaked from the rain water, gusha gusha. As much as possible, I kicked puddles, creating splashes, basha basha, Venturing blindly into the rainy scene that looked like a giant rippling curtain, my shoulder was suddenly seized. Peering out from a gap between my wet bangs, there was Arashi, holding an umbrella.    

“I thought I’d come out to meet you since it was raining, but I guess there was no point,” Arashi laughed, looking at my state. “Thinking about it now, it was bad manners to invite a girl to a single guy’s house so suddenly, but nothing we can do now, I guess. Want to go home, dry up and get some food? There’s a good Chinese place nearby.” 

His manners, I thought, were very, very impeccable.  

“Yeah, even if we are siblings, it is a little weird,” I said, joking.  

“No, we’re not siblings,” Arashi replied without hesitation.  

“I know. I heard from Otōsan,” I said. And so we agreed that our exclusive news were one and the same. Along with the fact that we had been troubled by the same thoughts. And, opening an extra umbrella that Arashi held out for me, we ascended the gently sloping hill. The white center line, the guardrail, everything glittered from the rain. The two of us felt blissful in the same way, it seemed. 

Even more than when I was a child, my father’s house was quite something. As we opened the partially unhinged entrance door, a creaking sound emitted. Inside, I thought that it must have been a beautiful house once, with its interior design unified by a sophisticated brown and dark grey… “The things you love in a place you love,” I was compelled to think. Among the mess, the floor could hardly be seen. 

“Don’t you ever think of cleaning or fixing this place up?” I asked as I dried my head with a bath towel.  

“If it’s that bad then moving out would be easier,” he said. The two of us, for no apparent reason, were in a good mood. Arashi guided me through the house in which he had grown up. Once again, I dwelled on my father’s life. Was it my father who had swallowed us up? Or was it that we were fascinated by him? But, with so little information, I could not know. Trifling things, such as the large-screen TV, the big coat neatly hung on a hanger, books piled up on the table—I felt within these objects my father’s shadow. But it was not the objects themselves. I thought that even in my own room the shadow was there. But I would no longer see my father as a sheer obstacle.  

Arashi’s room was preferable. His room at the end of the hall on the second floor, had no door.  

“It got busted up so I just took it out,” Arashi laughed. In his room were a huge audio system, a sturdily built table, and numerous books. Next to the window, there was a large, solid bed, but the glass window, old and cracked, could not be closed all the way and had been left slightly ajar. When I asked about rainy weather, he told me, laughing, about the times when he was roused awake by the rain, or about the winter, when snow fell on the window sill and on the head of the bed.  

Such an outdoor life, I thought. There could not be another house like this. 

And so the two of us ate to our hearts’ content at a dim sum restaurant by the station. Stepping outside, the night road after the rain had a black sheen, and the twinkling stars had emerged. We had completely, so completely opened our hearts to each other, and not wanting to 

part ways, we went to drink tea. The underground café was crowded with people enjoying their post-dinner tea, so Arashi and I sat at the counter. The dim interior was filled by the stir of lightly flowing music. Beside me there was a shaded shell lamp that brightly illuminated the space nearby. Talking to each other pleasurably without end about our respective lives up to the present, I thought what a very long, long time it was that we stayed together. 

“Arashi, what do you want to become? A guy who does nothing, like Otōsan?” I asked. 

“What about you?” Arashi asked.  

“Me? I…I’ll become whatever I become, really,” I said.  

“What the hell?” Arashi said. So I gave it a thought.  

“As long as it’s not someone’s mistress, anything would be okay. Not that I don’t love Okāsan.” 

“Huh, I see, Arashi laughed. “I’m going to be a writer.” 

“Seriously?” I was bewildered at such an unexpected answer. “What do you want to write about?” 

“Happy things,” Arashi said. 

“So, something like A Christmas Carol? Or Little Women?” 

“Something more boring. Like, about two childhood friends who live by each other and grow up and get married, or about a dog who’s thrown away on a rainy day and gets big—stuff like that,” Arashi said. 

That really does seem boring, I thought. But it would be bad-mannered to say that, so I changed my question.  

“What about your debut work? Will you let me read it?” 

“Nah, because I wrote it in my first year of elementary school. I don’t have it anymore,” Arashi laughed.  

“Then tell me about it,” I said as I drank hot black tea from my delicate cup.  

“The story was about a crocodile who was worried about a huge debt,” he said, neck tilted. “Or maybe it was a turtle.” 

“That’s definitely an eccentric setting,” I said. 

“As a kid, I seriously thought that it was an epic that tackled the theme of cooperation. So in the middle of the forest, a married crocodile couple live in a small lake, and the husband racks up a huge debt. But he doesn’t tell his wife about it and just worries all day and night, and finally, he decides to tell a horned owl. Or maybe it was an Ural owl. After that, the horned owl tells the rabbit, and the rabbit tells the wildcat, and the wildcat tells the wolf, and…so eventually word gets around, and my description of that goes on forever for about a hundred animals. So since all the forest animals are poor, they all take just a little bit of money at a time to the crocodile’s place.” 

“Did they consult each other?” I said. 

“No, no. No way,” Arashi said solemnly. “They do it secretly; they each go separately. Like, for example: ‘I’ll go to the crocodile’s house, the wildcat thought. The wildcat had nothing except five yen, but still, he couldn’t not offer it, so at midnight, he rushed out of the forest’—that kind of tone. I’m being a little vague, though. In reality, it was much more nuanced, and it would make people cry.”  

“Uh huh,” I nodded. Arashi continued.  

“So as I was saying, the description of the hundred animals in the forest goes on forever. So everyone leaves money on the banks of the dark lake. A lot of things happen, like the animals bump into each other, or the bad guys of the forest are hiding and watch the animals and they’re moved, and then the next morning, the crocodile discovers a lot of money and he feels overwhelming emotion. Besides that, the money’s all disorganized; there are small gifts, and coins, too, right? He says, ‘This is from everyone in the forest,’ and as tears flow down, he tells his wife and shows her the money. So that day, the crocodile’s wife goes around to everyone in the forest and delivers flowers. That’s basically the story.” 

“It’s a great story,” I said. For some reason, I felt like tears were about to fall. If it were the case that he had let me see a dream from his early life, I found his dedication lovely. The Arashi who had harbored such a story in his heart as a child—how much better it could have been if he had been adopted then, and if I could have been there with him.  

“Right? Yeah, it’s a great story!” He said in a loud voice as he looked at me, eyes wide open. “But my teacher said the part where the hundred animals appear was rough. I wrote so obsessively that I even forgot it was assigned as summer homework, you know, and I was told that I wrote out the names of animals to fill up pages, so I got a C on it, you know, but since I was moved by the story to the point of crying, I was pissed. Well, I guess I didn’t have enough authority to argue back.” 

“Your teacher was wrong. That kind of teacher kills a child’s talent. If it had been me, I would have stuck a gold star next to the A, and read it aloud to everyone.” 

“Yeah, but I was hated by the teacher. Because it was confusing. Nothing I could do about it, I guess.” Though as he spoke, Arashi looked pleased. 

“But you’d be a great writer,” I said. 

“You think so?” he said laughing. 

“I think so,” I laughed as well, nodding. 

Truly, I found him attractive.  

  

  

A rainy autumn.  

Arashi and I began to meet often. It was as though we were trying to recover the period of time during which we had been unable to meet. Merely meeting and piling up lost time was important. Besides, even though the two of us stayed in the same room and, no matter how I think about it, had more than just good impressions of each other, we never did anything.  

Most likely because we had the same parents, so we thought. 

“There might be a time when the four of us sit around a dining table.” When was it that Arashi had said this suddenly? It had been evening. In a station plaza by a fountain, children frolicking with their parents, passing us by. 

Surprised, I looked up at Arashi. He had a strange look on his face, as though arrested by an unsolvable problem. An expression like that of a small child’s, unreadable. I tried to imagine the scene as well. My father, mother, Arashi, and I, perhaps in that chaotic house, sitting at a large table. Unnatural, like a bad dream. But also a dream that was not unbearable. Like a bright, warm family portrait. 

“Saying it like that, you make me feel like our love is depraved or something.” My voice resounded into the night. Spraying high into the air and falling back down in rainbow colors, the fountain water sparkled vividly. Within a terrible loneliness, was a gleam. I looked fixedly at the sparkling water, black and clear in the night. 

To tell the truth, I was not a virgin, and if I were to ask, he would probably answer in the negative as well, laughing so much that his cheeks would spasm. So it was easy to imagine an aspect of our lives that included sex. It would be a very sweet, pleasant feeling, I thought. 

But there was nothing of the sort.  

Perhaps it was partly because Arashi and I, from the time we were small, had somehow come to internalize the nightmarish “family scene.” 

There was something of that. 

 

That day I left the south market and hurried toward Arashi’s house. In the early morning, people around the shops were sparse, and it was strangely quiet. Light white clouds faintly covered the quiet blue expanse of sky like a veil. Like a transparent liquid that gently becomes visible, it was an extraordinary blue.  

“Oy!” As I passed the outskirts of the south market, I was halted to a stop by a call. There was Arashi, sitting by a register of a fruit market.  

“What are you doing there?” I asked in surprise. 

“I’ve been asked to watch the store. You should come in and work, too.” 

“Sure.” I entered the store. The grassy scent of fresh fruit overcame me. Brightly illuminated, vivid reds, oranges, and yellows tightly crammed in a row, dazzling, made me feel as though I were in a southern country. 

“So is this your part-time job?” I asked as I sat on a round stool that Arashi pulled out.  

“Nah, I might look weak, but I’ve been handy around the neighborhood for a long time.  

“You’re a popular guy, huh?”  

“Yeah. The shop’s auntie is hospitalized right now, and her husband’s gone to visit her.” 

A strange feeling. The interior of the shop was brightly lit, beautiful fruits were placed gently within cases, and on the stands multi-colored apples, kiwis, and grapefruits were laid out in rows. People’s legs walked leisurely crossed the street in front of the mart. The two of us sad inside the quiet mart and chatted lightly.  

“Are you handling the cash register?” 

“Nope.” 

“I’ll do it.” 

“Thanks. I’ll leave it to you if a customer comes in.” 

As we exchanged words, it seemed as though the shop’s fruitlings were leaning in their ears to listen to us in silence. 

“Aren’t you bored? Want to eat some apples?” Arashi asked. 

“I don’t think we should. People would say that the employees are eating fruit and messing up the store’s stuff,” I laughed. “I’m all right, really. I’m pretty used to housesitting.”  

“You’re really a latchkey kid,” Arashi said. 

“But you’re not.”  

“…I think that housesitting is waiting for someone to come back on time, just like you do. I mostly lived alone, though. The old man didn’t come back much.” 

“When I was young, there were times when my mother wouldn’t come back for days since she was so stuck on Otōsan.”  

“A Dialogue between Latchkey Kids,” Arashi laughed. “But it must have been boring being a girl and not being able to go out at night. I was always hanging out since about middle school.” 

“Yeah, but if it’s okay to say this about myself, I had a talent for playing alone at home. No matter how much I played alone, I never got tired of it. I’d make mix tapes of famous classical music, or rearrange stuff, or watch TV. So I’d get upset if any of that was ruined.”  

“Hey, isn’t that kind of like the mistress-type?” 

“Yeah, right.” 

“But something about it’s kind of sad. Seems like you had to grow up on a deviated path,” Arashi said.  

“Same with you, Arashi,” I said, thinking of his fairy tale.  

“In a weird way, part of me is an adult. And then part of me is a kid,” Arashi said. 

“It’s because we’re both only children. Just an only child,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether Arashi understood what I meant. 

“It’s good we were able to meet,” he said, eyes pondering. 

“Yeah,” I said. It really is good we were able to meet, I thought again, and tears flowed out. Silently, Arashi held my back, stirring in us warm emotions held by real siblings. In my heart, I felt that he was my brother. The brother I met by chance, finally. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

B u b b l e s 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Y o s h i m o t o 
B a n a n a 

 

 

 

Translated by  

Elise Choi 

  

Arashi and I kissed just once. 

Since this is Japan maybe that would be considered normal, but if this were another country that sort of thing would be just short of the friends-only zone. Soon afterward he went off far away. Whether or this this is love, I am not sure. I really do not know.  

All the same, after I grew to have feelings for Arashi I knew that love was not cherry blossoms and fireworks. 

It is like the bottom of the sea. 

The earth is stirred by the flowing current of the white sand and, sitting down, I am mesmerized by the transparent, far-off blue of the sky, visible through the clear water. Down here, sad lives are all the same.  

Even if I shut my eyes and run away, or aim for a completely different place, my feelings return here after a struggle. This place is always so quiet, like a dream, and because he is always here I never wake up; I want to continue sleeping in this state forever.  

But the real Arashi will always be more precious. Looking at each other, eye to eye, and carrying the sea in our hearts, we go on with life.  

My name is Toriumi Ningyo—Mermaid Bird-sea.   

The first time I had ever heard of Arashi  

was when I asked my mother about the history of my rather  

bizarre name. That was around the time I had just moved up to  

elementary school. It was a cold, cold winter’s night.  

When I went to say good night to my mother, I saw that she was in front of the stove hugging her knees. For some reason, the image of her back gave off a somber feeling.   

“What’s wrong, Okāsan?” I tried to ask in a  

  smooth voice, just like I had heard in a computer  

commercial.                

“Ningyo, you’re still awake?” My mother turned and asked with a smile. Because it was her usual smiling face, I felt relieved.   

“Okāsan, why do I have such a strange name?” I asked. My friends had asked me about my name. She laughed and explained. 

“Your father and I wanted to give you all our affection, and we wanted you to be loved by all the creations on earth—by the birds, oceans, humans, and fish—so we threw them all into your name.  And I wanted you to become a girl like the Little Mermaid, who would give her life for the person she loved.”  

All this from my mother, who in all earnestness said these seemingly ludicrous yet real things with a serious look. At the time, my mother’s expression was shining and exquisitely beautiful. For this reason, I adored her words.  

“I see,” I said. “Okāsan, was he sick a while ago?” 

“Yes, your father,” my mother’s eyes rapidly darkened once again.  

This again?  

I hated the man who was my father tremendously. When a person like him receives a fortune he becomes a black sheep. My father squandered the assets left by his parents and lived his life as he saw fit ever since he was young. After his marriage, he abandoned his work and spent his hours in a deserted house of a neighboring city. My mother stayed as my father’s lover and gave birth to me without marrying. If I were forced to put it into words, my mother’s position is probably that of a mistress. Since I had never lived together with my father, the occasional times I saw him, though he had not even consumed any alcohol, I thought he was like a drunken giant who spoke with a booming voice. To a child’s mind, he was in any case, simply a terrifying man.  

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked, furrowing my brows.