A quiet, leafy, small street in Kyoto, late afternoon. A few twitters of birdsong could be heard from the trees in the nearby shrine, but they were the only sounds apart from footsteps and the occasional passing car. Somewhere on this street was a plate glass window that some older residents remembered to be the showroom of a kimono fabric shop, but it had been the residence of a foreigner for many years, rented from the landlady next door.

A boy of about ten or eleven, on a bicycle, rode up and stopped at this window. He carefully put the bike on its stand and approached the house, putting his face against the glass and shading his eyes so he could see inside. What he was looking at were rows of books in a foreign language, arranged on many different kinds of shelves.

The boy noticed movement inside, and saw the foreigner, an older man, emerging from a door at the back of the book-filled room. He quickly turned, unshipped the bike, mounted, and fled.

This scene was enacted about twice a week for several years.

Hideo, now no longer a young boy but a young man and a university student, continued to make the detour to the house with the plate-glass window on the way home from his school. He got off his bicycle, put it on its stand ready for a quick getaway, and looked inside the plate glass window at the rows of books on their shelves. He no longer pressed his face against the glass; that was the gesture of a young boy, which he definitely was not. But the pull of all those books was still as strong as ever, especially now. Hard copy books were something of a rarity, when bookstores were closing everywhere with all the electronic devices and streaming systems available. Today Hideo noticed that these books were a little different from Japanese paperbacks, more varied in size and more brightly colored. Titles which Hideo couldn’t understand were written in different styles upon their spines.

Hideo saw the foreign man, now a little more grizzled and stooped, emerge through the door from the back premises. He turned, ready to get on his bike and pedal away as usual. But this time was different. Something happened that Hideo did not expect—the stand on his bike froze in position, and he was unable to release the mechanism. He briefly considered running away on foot, but something made him stand his ground. The old man approached the glass from the other side and clicked the lock, sliding the door open a few inches. He said in Japanese, “Do you want something?” in a voice that was pleasantly warm and gritty.

Hideo didn’t know what to do. His natural shyness was compounded by the knowledge that here he was, talking to a foreigner on a public street. He struggled for a moment, then whispered, “I have a request to make of you.”

The old man moved back and opened the glass door a little wider to admit the young man. Hideo diffidently stepped over the threshold, to be confronted with a sunken area where shoes could be removed, just inside the door, and a step up to the level of the room. He had no intention of taking off his shoes — he simply looked up at the foreign man, who was higher on the upper level, standing there on his enormous feet clad in navy blue socks.

“What is it?” said the old man gently. Hideo pulled the shreds of his courage about him and stood a little taller. He couldn’t let this great chance pass.

“I can’t read these books, but could you please lend me one? Not too big, one that you love, and that says something important about life.” Hideo had no idea that this was going to come out of his mouth. As he said it, though, he realized this was what he had wanted for years. As long as he had been coming and looking in this window, in fact.

“Why do you want a book if you can’t read it?”

“Just to carry with me—maybe I can absorb the teaching of it without words.”

“That’s a very interesting idea. Just a minute.” The man turned to the shelves of books and seemed to deliberate. After a few minutes he was back, holding a small, thin book with a faded green hard cover. 

“I think this will be good for you.” He proffered the book, and Hideo took it, feeling the roughness of the cover and the warmth of the room it seemed to contain.

“When should I bring it back?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s all right. I have several copies of that book. You can keep it. It’s a present.” The old man used the English word, which any Japanese would be familiar with, and smiled. Hideo felt that he was being truly seen for the first time in his life. He smiled back, took the book, and tucked it into his breast pocket. “Thank you very much.” He bowed, sketched a small salute, and left the room of books with the old man watching him from within.

The bike stand worked fine now. It was inexplicable, but without thinking about it, Hideo swung his leg over the machine and pedaled off into the gathering dusk.

The next few years were momentous for Hideo. He studied, worked part time, graduated from university, and got his first real job. At every bend in his path through life, he took the small green book out of his pocket, where he always kept it over his heart, and whispered a request that the book advise him about his decision. He never opened it or puzzled over the foreign language of its title. but used it as a charm to point the way when he didn’t know where to go. The book, it seemed, was never at a loss for counsel. It showed the right way unerringly.

Hideo had a good life, and he would have said that it was mostly due to the advice he got from his strange charm. Therefore, when he met a wonderful woman and prepared to marry, he wanted the old foreign man to know about it. He determined to invite the man to his wedding, which would be in Kyoto at the end of the year. He wanted to go to the plate-glass windowed shop, to deliver the wedding invitation and also to ask, finally, what was written in the book. His bike was long gone, but he figured out how to get to the place by bus, and one evening he made the trip. The large white envelope containing the wedding invitation nestled in his pocket, along with the little green book that had been such a good friend for the past few years. Hideo’s heart beat fast as he came in sight of the glass door.

As he had done countless times, Hideo looked inside, intending to see the books ranged on their mismatched shelves. What he actually saw sent him reeling into the street.

The room was empty. Instead of books on shelves, he saw white walls, and the room, with its dusty wooden floor, looked smaller than he remembered.

Hideo decided to ask about the man and the room which used to be full of books at the small restaurant nearby. He felt he needed some sustenance, anyway, and went in and ordered a bowl of udon noodles. When an old lady brought the steaming bowl, he asked her, “What happened to the foreigner who lived in that house with the plate glass window?”

“Oh, he’s gone,” was the reply.

“How come?”

“Well, the landlady died and the house was sold. No one knows where the foreigner went. He sometimes used to come in here. His Japanese was okay.”

“Do you know what happened to the books he used to have?”

The old woman thought a moment before answering. “No, not really, I don’t remember him or anyone else taking them away. It would have been a big project, there were so many. I’m sure I would have noticed such an event in the street. Probably they were thrown away. I know that building is going to be demolished soon. Who knows what will be built there.” Years of uncomplaining endurance of the incomprehensible could be read in her face.

Hideo thanked the old lady, took some disposable chopsticks from the holder and cracked them in two. He began to slurp the noodles, rapidly, as a young man eats. When he finished and went out, he left the little green book on the seat.