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Writers in focus

The Heron Catchers (Pt 1)

(Editorial note: Due to WordPress formatting, the extract below is indented differntly from the original and may have lost clarity in the transposition.)

David Joiner writes: ‘The following is a draft of the first chapter of a 260-page novel I wrote in three weeks, and which now requires much revision to develop more depth, specifically of character and theme. The chapter admittedly needs work, so I bring it here with some misgivings.

As I revise this chapter, I plan to work most of all on the opening section, which I’m torn between keeping and starting later on. As usual when I start a novel, I feel I might be beginning earlier in the story than I should. But this is how novels get written – from overwriting to relentlessly paring down. Of course, for a first draft, none of that matters. I have 260 pages of plot, and that’s not a bad starting point.

The novel’s working title is The Heron Catchers. Like my last novel, Kanazawa, which Stone Bridge Press will publish in late 2021, it’s set in Ishikawa Prefecture. Although some of The Heron Catchers also takes place in Kanazawa, the majority of it unfolds in Yamanaka Onsen (where I spent a lot of time between 2017-19). My hope is to write a series of novels set in Ishikawa, though now that I’m based in the U.S. such hopes may prove unrealistic.’

********************

THE HERON CATCHERS

Chapter 1

“I wish you were coming with me,” Sedge told his wife on the morning he left for Wakasa Bay. “It’s not every day I turn forty. Doesn’t it bother you that we haven’t spent much time together away from the shop recently?”

Standing before their bathroom mirror, Nozomi tugged a thick black sweater over her head; static electricity flattened her long hair and she wet her hands to try to fix it. “We’ll celebrate later,” she said. “Besides, this is a good chance for you to get things out of your system.”

“What’s in my system that needs getting out?”
“You know what I mean. With business how it’s been, you’ve had a lot on your mind lately. A lot of stress.”
“No more than you’ve had.”

Was it the fluorescent light above the mirror or the effect of her black hair and sweater that made her face seem abnormally blanched – or had her face been like that all morning? As if noticing this at the same time as Sedge, she patted her cheeks until a pink hue rose in them.

Afterward she turned to him, and for a moment she frowned. “It’s not nice to stare.”
“I can’t help it. I try to memorize you at some instant every day.”

The briefness of her smile was equal to the briefness of the frown she’d just given him. Stepping into the hallway, she reminded him that he had to meet his friends at the station soon; their train would leave in one hour. “Please check to make sure I didn’t forget anything when I packed for you.”

Realizing that he’d never thanked her for doing that, he put his arm around her and said, “You’re perfect. Do you know that?”
“Don’t embarrass me.”
“What are you talking about? They’re the truest words I’ve ever said.”

Before leaving for the station, Sedge brushed his teeth. As he rinsed his mouth, he heard Nozomi wheel his suitcase to the front door.

“Sure you don’t mind if I’m away for two days?” he said.
“Mind? I’m the one who suggested it. Just a minute.”

He hadn’t wanted to celebrate his birthday with other people before doing so with her, but she had made the arrangements a week ago and, wrongly assuming that she’d come too, he’d agreed to them.

He heard the soft shuffling of her slippers as she turned the corner of the hallway, then the crinkling of a plastic bag. She returned holding a package for him to take along. “I would have made something especially for you, but since you’re going with your friends I decided to get this instead. It’s easier to share. And they won’t tease you this way.”

She handed him a box of senbei, each round rice cracker stamped with an image of a cherry blossom, whose season was a few weeks away. Whether it was to encourage their drinking, or to slow them down in it, she’d evidently guessed how they’d spend their time together. He thanked her and said, “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

“Stop it, already.” She shook her head and looked away from him.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” She pushed her hair behind her ears several times. “You need to get going. And so do I.”

He leaned forward to kiss her, then grabbed his suitcase and opened the door. “I still hope you’ll surprise me by showing up today or tomorrow.”

When he arrived at Kanazawa Station, his friends Shinji, Masa, and Ryotaro were waiting for him at the bus curb. They cheered as he stepped off the city bus, causing passersby to turn and look at him.

“I wish my wife were as kind and easy-going as yours,” Masa said as Sedge approached them. Shinji added: “Have you ever considered that she doesn’t want you around?”

Sedge laughed with the others. He felt lucky to be in a marriage that, while not perfect, had caused him far fewer problems than the marriages of most of his friends.

They arrived in Wakasa Bay following lunch at a fish market in Obama. They were late by an hour, however, after missing the ryokan shuttle; Sedge had wandered away from the pick-up area to observe hawks screeching and circling above a saba catch being unloaded in the small harbor. Perhaps because he was paying for the trip, his friends didn’t complain, but only reminded him that this was a birthday celebration and not one of the birdwatching excursions he often went on.

The ryokan stood on a crescent-shaped beach, all hard brown sand and dotted with sun-bleached canoes that the beginning of March made too cold to use. The placid water of the bay, ringed with low forested mountains, stretched out ahead of them. Not a wave rippled its dark blue surface. Fishing boats floated offshore, anchored at even distances from each other. Ryotaro had told Sedge on the shuttle that Wakasa was famous for squid and pufferfish, and Sedge remembered Nozomi promising that they’d feast on both over the next two days.

Nozomi’s brother Takahashi had married a woman whose family ran a traditional ryokan an hour south of Kanazawa, in a hot spring town called Yamanaka Onsen, and Sedge found it strange that she hadn’t arranged for them to stay there. When he’d asked about it, she laughed and explained that since he and his friends were bound to be noisy and drunk for two days, it was better to foist them off on a ryokan somewhere else.

“Just to be safe, I sent you to the next prefecture,” she’d said. “It’ll be a nice change to stay on the coast, won’t it? Not in the mountains where Takahashi’s ryokan is.”

Her choice of accommodations had given him the same kind of glumness he might feel after learning that she’d thrown away an old letter he’d written her.

“But why did you make the reservation where you and I stayed before?”
“Because I know how much you liked it and I thought you’d enjoy going back with your friends.”

He couldn’t argue with this, yet he was disappointed she didn’t feel that new memories he’d form without her might cheapen those they’d formed there together in the past. She often told him he was too sentimental.

On the shuttle, Sedge’s friends teased him again about how Nozomi had sent him away for his birthday rather than arranging to celebrate it together.

“She trusts you more than our wives trust us,” they told him. “She’s given you the ultimate gift: money and freedom to do whatever you’d like with us.”

Sedge reminded them that she had insisted on running their ceramics shop this weekend and that they would celebrate together later.

“We didn’t know you had so much money tucked away,” Shinji said.
“We don’t,” he said. “I’m trying hard not to think about that.”

Shinji asked Sedge what kind of trip they’d be taking now if Sedge had arranged it instead of Nozomi.

“I’ve wanted to go birdwatching for a long time,” Sedge said. “But someplace more exotic than Fukui. Okinawa, maybe. Or Karafuto.”

Shinji laughed. “You told me once that ‘birdwatching’ could have more than one meaning in English.” He explained it to Masa and Ryotaro, adding: “It’s a euphemism for something I think we’d all like to do. Which would be fine by me, but in your case I wouldn’t compromise your marriage. You’d be hard-pressed to find another woman as good as Nozomi.”

Though among his friends, he felt lonely without Nozomi. He knew he was being childish. But for some reason he couldn’t shake the feeling. He was surprised he felt so strongly about her absence.

They checked into the ryokan and, after complimentary tea and wagashi at a lacquered table near the entrance, were led through the long quiet hallways to their rooms.

To Sedge’s surprise, he had his own room while the others shared a suite. The different accommodations embarrassed him – until he saw their suite, with its large rooms, two sofas, and private bath overlooking the ocean. His friends seemed quite satisfied with it.

Alone in his room as he changed into the ryokan-issued yukata he found there, he thought again how strange it was that of all the places where Nozomi might have arranged for them to stay she had chosen here. They had stayed at this ryokan together shortly before their marriage six years ago. It had been her idea, an impulsive one, after they’d spent the day at Tojimbo and Wakasa Aquarium; later they got drunk on sake at an izakaya, which made their return to Kanazawa by train unappealing. She turned lachrymose late that night as he undressed her in the dark by the window, where he thought that the coruscating lights of the squid boats on the horizon and the small waves breaking against the shore had mesmerized her. As he led her to their futon, she revealed to him that a high school friend had jumped off the rocks at Tojimbo and killed himself. Tojimbo was known throughout Japan as a suicide spot. When he asked why she’d wanted to visit it, she shrugged and said she’d heard it was beautiful. In all these years she’d never been, she said, and started crying. That night became the most awkward of all those they had spent together until then. It also taught him the effects that alcohol had on her. He found out later from Takahashi that the suicidal friend had been her first lover. He thought she’d been fifteen at the time.

The phone in his room rang, and when he picked it up he heard Shinji and Ryotaro in the background.

“We’ve just opened two bottles of sake,” Masa said, “one Kokuryu and one Born. Come over as soon as you can.”
“Is that all we’ll be doing this weekend?” Sedge asked, the worry in voice authentic.
“What else is there to do? Don’t worry, we’ll take breaks to soak in the baths and eat.”
“Give me a minute,” Sedge said. “I want to take some photographs of the room and my view of the bay to show Nozomi later.”
Masa laughed. “Don’t blame us if when you get here we’ve already started celebrating your birthday.”

Laughter erupted over the line again.

“What did I miss?” Sedge said.
“Shinji just opened a third bottle; he says we need to air the sake to make it taste better. We have our work cut out for us over the next two days.”

*

Sedge awoke the next morning to waves breaking beyond the window of his room. He had a splitting headache, his mouth felt dry and foul, and he couldn’t piece together when or how he’d returned from the ryokan’s karaoke room. He remembered only that Masa had invited four female guests to join them, and that the lack of seats in the cramped room meant they had to sit on the men’s legs. Sedge’s right thigh ached this morning from where a young woman had perched on it for perhaps an hour.

He kicked off his blanket and reached for a thermos of ice-water, from which he drank three glasses in succession. He felt grit between his toes and noticed what appeared to be sand collected at the far edge of his futon. Had he taken a walk along the beach at some point, or had the sand been there all this time?

In a small mirror by the bathroom he saw that someone had written in lipstick on his forehead, the message appearing backward in his reflection: Happy Birthday, Seju. Last night the woman on his leg had joked that his name sounded like a type of Korean alcohol, baekseju, and she had called him that for part of the evening. The word meant “100-year wine,” but since Sedge was only 40 her nickname for him changed to sashipseju – “40-year wine.” He was unable to recall when the woman had written this. Had it happened in his room? Had she come here with him and done it? Washing it off, he decided that he didn’t want to know.

It took him several minutes to locate his phone, which had nearly drained of battery since yesterday. In answer to a final message he’d apparently sent to Nozomi – “Just saw ibis fly over bay. A little drunk now, but going to find it if I can. And bring it back to you, my love.” – she had replied at 2:30 a.m.: “Take care of yourself, Sedge.” He felt guilty now imagining that he’d awakened her with his drunken nonsense.

He didn’t remember sending it, nor did he recall seeing an ibis fly over the bay. Had he really tried to find it for her, as if he could keep up with it in the dark of night? He hated having drunk so much that conscious hours had vanished from his memory. He had experienced blackouts before, but not for several years.

Before he could send Nozomi a new message, the phone in his room rang, nearly sending his head flying off his shoulders. It was Shinji. Breakfast was about to be served in the dining hall.

Almost as an aside he said: “It’s a good thing the security guard noticed the canoe missing on his rounds last night and found you. I don’t think we should drink again today. It got all of us in different kinds of trouble.”
“I went canoeing last night?” Sedge said, glancing back at the sand scattering the foot of his futon. “Where did I go? As drunk as I was, I couldn’t have taken it out very far.”
“You don’t remember?” Shinji said. “I was up until four a.m. trying to calm down the hotel manager.”
“Thank you for helping me,” Sedge said. After a pause he asked: “Why the hell did I drink so much?”
“You were despondent for some reason, but this morning you sound like your normal self again. Hurry up and come to breakfast. We’ll fill you in on the details in person.”

When Sedge saw his friends at the breakfast table, already digging into their small dishes, more of the previous night came back to him. He didn’t think he’d done anything to be ashamed of, though he recalled that his friends had seemed tempted to go further than singing with the women who had joined them – and who had said that they were married, too.

“You’re more alive than I expected,” Ryotaro said to Sedge as he sat down, his voice gravelly from last night. “You must still be drunk.”
“I couldn’t imagine anything worse right now,” Sedge said.
“I’m glad you had the sense to wash the lipstick off your face before coming to breakfast,” Shinji said, grinning behind a mouthful of food. “You were a sorry sight all colored in red.”

That seemed to answer the question of where the face-painting had happened, which relieved Sedge. Masa added: “I hope you didn’t photograph yourself in your room last night and send it to Nozomi.”

The comments came too quickly for Sedge. He shook his head lightly as he snapped his chopsticks apart, then prodded at the food laid out before him. The conversation shifted to the women they had been with in the karaoke room. Apparently they hadn’t entered the breakfast area yet, and the consensus was that they wouldn’t manage it.

Listening to them talk, the fog over his memory lifted an inch. He saw again, as in a damaged reel played back to him, a woman on his thigh removing a lipstick from her purse and applying it to her lips. The color had struck him as garishly red when she’d entered the room, but later her face had grown flushed with alcohol and it seemed at that point to suit her. She’d been younger than her friends, perhaps in her mid-twenties. She had smiled at him as she’d moved her lips back and forth to even out the color. He remembered, too, the pressure of something warm and waxy creep across his forehead – it had been her who had written on him with her lipstick. Someone had asked her for it, perhaps to write more on him or to draw a lewd picture, but she wouldn’t relinquish it, nor did she continue painting Sedge’s face. What she had written had apparently struck her as enough, or perhaps she’d realized that anything more would stretch beyond a joke into humiliation.

He felt distressed by what Nozomi would have thought if she had seen him last night – hopelessly drunk and with a pretty, young, alcohol-flushed woman in his lap, her lipstick scrawled across his forehead. It had been his most mortifying moment as a married man, and he regretted it. Why had he let Nozomi persuade him to travel here in the first place?

The more he tried to convince himself of his own innocence last night, the more he wished he hadn’t agreed to go on this trip. He’d been hurt when Nozomi suggested that he celebrate his fortieth birthday with his friends, who were really only acquaintances to him, rather than with her.

His friends grew more boisterous recollecting last night, and whenever new guests entered the dining area their voices dropped and they looked in that direction. As they’d predicted, the women from last night never came.

Sedge turned to Shinji and said, “What’s this about me taking out a canoe last night? I can’t recall a thing.”

Shinji’s laughter was flecked with a different quality than before, as if it had been a source of worry for him.

“You really don’t remember?”

Sedge shook his head, feeling increasingly that he’d rather not know what had happened.

“When you left the karaoke room, you announced that you were turning in for the night. We wanted to escort you to your room, but you insisted on finding your way yourself. About an hour later we went back to our room, and at around 3 a.m. the hotel manager called to say that one of our party had taken a canoe onto the bay without their permission and did we know about it. You had entered the water without paddles, and the current carried you out a few hundred meters. Thankfully, it didn’t take you out to sea but only deposited you on a rocky shore, dead asleep.”
“Dead drunk and asleep,” Masa said.
“You mean to say that you don’t remember it at all?”
Sedge wondered at his inability to remember. “What do you suppose I was doing?”
“You said you wanted to go to Tojimbo.”
“And not because of a bird?” he said, glancing at his phone, on which he’d recently seen his message to Nozomi.
“Ah, that’s right,” Shinji said. “You claimed to be following an ibis to Tojimbo. What was that about?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.” Sedge opened his phone screen and checked his call log. To his surprise, he had called Nozomi several times. One call had lasted fifteen minutes.
“I hope I didn’t say anything bad to Nozomi when I talked to her.”
“I doubt you did,” Masa said. “You’re not that kind of drunk.”
“I agree,” Ryotaro said. “You were awfully clear-headed, I thought, considering how much you drank.”

Though these comments reassured him, he still wondered what they had talked about. Too ashamed to confront Nozomi with his lost memories, however, he decided to ask her when he returned to Kanazawa.

He finished half of his breakfast, then went by himself to the hot spring baths. He settled in the rotenburo, with its unobstructed view of the bay, hoping to sweat out the impurities from last night.

********************

Part Two will follow shortly. For samples of David Joiner’s previous writing, see his piece on Izumi Kyoka or this extract from his forthcoming novel entitled Kanazawa. For information relating to his Vietnam novel, Lotusland, see here.

Featured writing

Short Story (Huggins)

The Last Of Michiko
by Amanda Huggins

Hitoshi knelt on a blue cushion in the doorway leading out to the garden. Every evening he opened the outer doors and the sliding screens regardless of the season, and waited for Michiko until long after the sun had disappeared behind the trees. His heart knew that she would never return, but his head was stubborn.

            The windchimes jingled in the sudden breeze, mimicking Michiko’s laugh, and Hitoshi pressed his face into her pink kimono, inhaling the amber scent. At his side stood a jar of her homemade adzuki jam, as sweet and red as her lips. He had rationed it carefully, but the jar was almost empty.

            The day’s post was propped up against the screen, and Hitoshi reached for the bills and the letter from his daughter. She wrote each week and always asked him to stay with her for a while. Sometimes he thought he would go, but the trip to Tokyo seemed like such a long journey from Kyoto now, and the city blinded him. There were no distances; everything was too densely packed, too close to see. And what about Michiko? He couldn’t risk her returning to the empty house in his absence.

            His son, Shoichi, lived nearer, but when Hitoshi saw the car pull up he stayed out of sight and didn’t answer the door. He couldn’t face the words that needed to be said, and he couldn’t bear to be reminded of the dark water snatching Michiko away as though she were a brittle twig. When Hitoshi thought of that day he pictured her hair floating upwards like the darkest seaweed, her skin as cold and blue as the sea, and though he knew he should talk to his son, he couldn’t face hearing Shoichi say that he was sure his mother had drowned, that she would not come back.

            Some evenings Hitoshi thought he heard a faint knocking at the door, but when he went outside, the narrow street was always empty. He stayed there awhile, peering into the darkness, his mind tricking him into hearing Michiko’s wooden clogs on the cobbles. In the distance he glimpsed the soft light of the lantern outside the izakaya. He imagined the warmth inside, the kind face of Kyoko as she poured the sake, and his friend, Wada, sat at the counter waiting to mull over the latest baseball game. But Hitoshi always went back into the house and sat alone again in the dark.

            Tonight, he didn’t hear any knocking, but just after seven o’clock the doorbell rang. When he opened the screen he saw his neighbour, the young widow, Chiyoko, stood beneath the light cradling a jar in both hands.

            ‘I found this in the cupboard, Hitoshi-san. It’s the last of Michiko’s sweet bean jam.’

            As he took the jar, Hitoshi stumbled under the weight of its significance. He looked up at Chiyoko as she discreetly backed away, and when their eyes met she paused. He bowed, and gestured her inside, apologising for his rudeness. She slipped off her shoes and stepped past him, her kimono sweeping the tatami like a new broom. As the door closed, Hitoshi noticed that Michiko’s wind chimes had fallen silent.

****

As the weeks went by Hitoshi found himself looking forward to Chiyoko’s visits more and more. He was calmed by her gentle movements as she prepared tea or served warmed sake on his favourite lacquer tray. Her conversation was undemanding, and her voice soothed him as she chatted about the neighbourhood and her office job in town. They rarely mentioned Michiko, but she often pressed him to talk about his children, persuading him to ask them both over for a family weekend.

            Chiyoko was quite similar to his wife in appearance, and at first Hitoshi had found himself continually staring at her, searching her face for everything he had lost. Chiyoko always changed out of her work suit before she visited, and the soft colours and patterns of her kimonos were a further reminder of his wife. Occasionally, when he’d caught a glimpse of her heavy silk sleeve around the edge of the door, he had been certain for a moment that Michiko would walk into the room.

            While Chiyoko talked to him he always sat facing the garden, and when she went home he moved over to his cushion in the doorway and opened the screens wider to let the warm evening air into the house. It was only then that he could hear the wind chimes. The final jar of bean paste was always beside him, and each evening he tasted Michiko’s lips on his own as he ate a single spoonful.

            One evening Chiyoko noticed the jar on the floor and commented that there was only a teaspoon left. Hitoshi’s reply was terse; he was only too aware of the significance of that one last mouthful of sweetness. Even the scent of Michiko’s kimono was growing fainter, as though he had inhaled and absorbed every last thread and breath of her. When Chiyoko left, Hitoshi wept for the first time in months. The sound of his sobbing carried across the garden, and a dog howled in reply from the valley beyond.

****

The following evening, Chiyoko called at the usual time, holding up a jar of bean jam at the window. She claimed she found it tucked away at the back of another cupboard. Hitoshi took it from her, holding it up to the light. The screw top was green, and Hitoshi recognised it as a type of pickle jar, a brand that he and Michiko had never eaten. And the paste was too dark. He knew it was not Michiko’s; he knew it was a deception. But he understood it was meant as a kind one.

            After Chiyoko had gone home he sat in the doorway watching the fireflies for a while, then fetched a pen and paper and wrote a short note asking her to lunch at the weekend to meet his son and daughter.

            When he dropped it through her door he glanced along the street towards the izakaya, wondering if Wada would be there at his usual place at the counter. Chiyoko had told him that Wada and Kyoko were finally a couple after all their years of shy flirtation, and the thought of them together made him smile. The red lantern swayed in the soft evening breeze as though beckoning him. Hitoshi counted the loose change in his pocket to make sure he had enough money for a couple of beers, and then he headed down the street.

*****************

Amanda Huggins was the winner of the Second Prize for the Writers in Kyoto Competition 2020. To see her winning piece entitled Sparrow Steps, please click here.

Featured writing

Notes from Himeji


Notes from Himeji, Japan: Colour of the Hood
by Simon Rowe

A traditional Japanese neighbourhood is a lot like a small fiefdom; it rolls with its own rules and rosters, elects its own committees, demands that its denizens perform seasonal duties such as river cleaning and shouldering a portable Shinto shrine at festival time, and is usually presided over by a big kahuna and his/her sidekick, a treasurer. 

Acceptance to the ‘fief’ requires of newcomers only two things: that they don’t behave strangely and that they abide by the rules. This means paying your annual festival fees, taking your turn with the orange flag at the school crosswalk, supervising the garbage corner, not playing Meatloaf up loud on hot summer nights or UB40 (with a woofer) when the red wine goes to your head. 

Having lived in Himeji for over two decades now, I’ve come to realise the value of rules and systems; not only do they create a clean and secure environment in which to live, but they encourage neighbours to connect with one another.

When I first arrived in the Good Hood, I knew not a soul. Now, eighteen months later, I have this to report:

To the south of me lives the Truckie: a small, bow legged man with a smoky baritone voice who trots his two shitsu dogs around the block each morning at dawn; then, at seven a.m., revs his four-tonne Hino with its rice harvester mounted on the back, bids me a gravelly good morning and departs for the paddylands upcountry. His wife is nice too; she comes and goes on her 50cc Honda scooter, tends to her azaleas, and passes over the fence seasonal goodies such as bamboo shoots in autumn, leeks in winter, and bitter melon (goya) in summer. 

Next to the Truckie resides the Tinkerer, a man who believes seven a.m. on a Sunday is the best time to fix something—anything! Then, as the morning eases into lunch hour, the whine of his power tools fades into the sounds of SuperTramp, Janis Joplin, David Bowie et al, and he steps from his shed to ponder his fig trees for as long as it takes to smoke a cigarette. He gave me a clump of moss as a welcome present.

Behind my house lives the Gardener, an elderly man whose bonsai scissors snip back and forth across vines of jasmine and clematis all summer long. Around dinner time, when I’m still looking out my rear window for writing inspiration, I glimpse an arm reach from his window to pluck a few fingers of red okra. He has inspired me to turn my own front yard into a kitchen garden, to weed it and reap!

To the north, facing the rice field at the end of the street, lives the Launderer, an elderly woman whose house has withstood many a typhoon and earthquake—but only just. Through its cracks and gaps waft the aromas of sandalwood incense and mosquito coil. She appears in the mornings to hang out her laundry, then retreats to a darkened living room from behind whose curtains will come jolly laughter and the white noise of the TV variety shows for the rest of the day. I gave her a bagful of tomatoes from my garden this summer, and the next day she delivered a dozen onsen-tamago (hot spring boiled eggs) to my door. 

Across the road live the Spinsters, two elderly sisters who sleep upstairs with their lights on–or perhaps they don’t sleep. A Black Cat delivery truck stops outside their house every afternoon and the driver passes a mysterious package to waiting hands inside. It all seems very Hitchcockian, but I’m sure there’s a logical reason—medicine, foodstuffs, bandsaws, bleach, chisels … I might borrow my son’s binoculars, wait till midnight.

Every neighbourhood has its teachers; mine has an abacus teacher, an ikebana (flower arrangement) teacher and an English tutor. But by far the busiest sensei on the block is the woman (also the neighbourhood big kahuna) who teaches violin and piano. She lives in an expansive wood and tiled-roof house on the corner of my street. Throughout the hot summer months, I have watched the moon rise over her rooftop, hoping to hear Flight of the Valkyries or something from Carmen, but getting off-key Debussy or a little wobbly Chopin to go with my Kirin lager. Unlike the Spinsters, her deliveries are not suspicious—mostly kids with Coke bottle glasses in private school uniforms, packing violin cases and satchels of sheet music who are delivered in Mercedes 4WDs and black Lexus town cars. 

When they’ve gone, and the evening calm has crept back, a tall, knobby-kneed white man might be seen standing outside her door. He holds a small bag of cherry tomatoes in his hand—a peace offering for the previous night’s Meatloaf up loud—because, he says apologetically, the red wine went to his head again. 

**************

You can read more Seaweed Salad Days posts from the Good Hood here: https://www.mightytales.net/seaweed-salad-days

Read Simon on marketing, or a piece about Greenhouse Blues. Also see Oysters to Die For or Hyogo Vignette.


Netsuke Museum event

(All photos by Peter Macintosh)

WIK Outing to Kyoto Seishu Netsuke Museum, Sept 26, 2020
Report by Peter Macintosh

A small, mask-wearing group of WiKers spent a couple of hours being educated in the not so well known world of netsuke.

Have you ever wondered what was the object dangling from the obi of a woman’s kimono, or what was keeping the beautifully lacquered box from falling off a kimono-clad dandy’s hip?

At close inspection, you will see an intricately carved sculpture, usually small enough to fit in the palm of a hand, which is attached to finely woven string. These pocket-sized artworks, netsuke-(根付), are the epitome of Japanese craftsmanship.  “Ne” comes from the Japanese for “root” and “tsuke” from “attach”.

In the Edo Period (1603-1868) when pocketless kimono was everyday wear, these carved “toggles”, as they are sometimes referred in English, were a practical way for the samurai to carry such amenities as medicine, skin cream, tobacco or small coins, They were easily accessible at the hip but left the hands free. Although often made from common materials such as boxwood, older and more expensive pieces used semi-precious stone, coral and even ivory.

Whether you are a beginner, enthusiast, and/or even a seasoned collector, there is no better venue in all of Japan to unlock and explore the world of netsuke than at the Kyoto Seishu Netsuke Art Museum. Each individual piece embodies a unique story. Located just west of Kyoto’s city center, just opposite Mibu Temple, the museum’s collection is displayed in a beautifully renovated “buke yashiki” – samurai residence – surrounded by an immaculate Japanese garden. The museum rotates their collection of more than 5,000 netsuke every three months, so the airy and spacious setting is a great way to spend a few hours of your day during this time of social distancing.

For those who still are hesitant about venturing out in public, don’t worry, you can see some of the collection on their Instagram page where pieces are photographed in many unusual backgrounds and thought-provoking settings.

Dangling from the hip
telling stories from the past
one lone netsuke


For more information, please see: www.netsukekan.jp.
Instagram @netsuke_museum

Peter Macintosh’s website can be found at http://www.kyotosightsandnights.com

Featured writing

Six Love Limericks

by Preston Houser

There once was a monk from Great Plains
Who was stunned by Love’s cryptic claims.  
Love liberates from bondage
Lonely hearts taken hostage
And sets the free in chains.  
  
There once was a monk from St. Klaus
Perplexed by love because
Unlike the shadow it casts
It’s fun while it lasts
And it lasts as long as it does.

There once was a monk from Bellamy
Who indulged in sexual treachery.  
“Most women,” he believed, 
“Are conveniently deceived
But I suspect they’re already on to me.” 

There once was a monk from the slums
Dumbfounded by marital doldrums.  
The one good in bed
Gets the butter and bread
While the baker is left with the crumbs.  

There once was a monk from Tuscany
Who could not comprehend matrimony.  
The wife wanted a kid
So she did what she did
Then consigned her husband to history.  

There once was a monk from Schenectady
Who questioned the sense of monogamy.  
Sex is a series of c••ks and c••ts
Whereas spouses make love but once—
A “once” that lasts an eternity.  

******************

Preston comments: What I’m doing, to put it bluntly, is reversing limerick form and content. Limericks traditionally have a strong rhyme-metric structure, which in turn contrasts/highlights the traditionally obscene content.  I’ve reversed this: I want to heighten the thematic content (Taoist/zen/philosophic, “There once was a monk…”) yet maintain the humor in a fractured form (near rhymes, stuttering meter).  I feel the limerick has suffered too long under the yoke of political incorrectness. Liberate the limerick, I say! Ne, demande!  

**********************

For other verse by Preston, please see his Improv Poesy or his Villanelle. To see an earlier posting of four poems by Preston, click here. To hear him talk about shakuhachi and Zen, and to hear him play, please listen to the following podcast:
https://www.ancientdragon.org/podcast-library/

Featured writing

Lovely! (Part Two)

This is the second part of a short story by Tina deBellegarde. For Part One, please see here.

************

It is a quiet Saturday and Aki finds herself alone. Natsumi was out late drinking the night before and won’t be coming into the store. She doesn’t mind. Aki enjoys the walk to work. She carries her umbrella but chooses not to open it. Her hair is already wet from her shower. She luxuriates in the autumn rain. She walks and dreams of living in the hills away from the crowded city.

The rain this morning is keeping the customers away. She savors the quiet. Aki opens the mail and finds her order has finally come in. Cannonball Adderley’s Somethin’ Else. Two copies. One for her and one for Ian if he still wants it.

 Ian returns every week or so. Buys a new album, pays with exact change and has lunch with Natsumi. Aki suspects he can’t afford to keep buying albums but uses it as an excuse to see Natsumi.

She carefully slits the plastic cover and eases the vinyl out of the sleeve and onto the turntable. The needle comes down gently to the opening piano notes of Autumn Leaves, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum… bum, bum, bum, bum, bum. And then the wind instruments enter ever so softly, and lead up to a crescendo where the trumpet joins them clear as the rainfall. The brushes swish on the drums like wind on leaves. And just when she was sure this would be her favorite piece of music, the alto sax sneaks in like a caress. She is startled by the immediacy of the emotion. The music reaches into her and disturbs things – much like Ian’s smile had done that first day.

This quiet Saturday she sits behind the counter and reads her book. Her treat for the day, no school work. She reads and listens and languorously moves her body to the music.

            “Ohayou gozaimasu. Good morning,” Ian says as he enters.

Aki freezes in place. Had he seen her swaying to the music? “Good morning,” she says without making eye contact.

            “Is that Autumn Leaves playing? Natsumi said you only play classical.”

            “Natsumi likes to exaggerate.” She slips her bookmark into the crease of her open book. “I bought two copies of the Adderley album. One is for sale if you still want it and one is for the store. I confess I wanted to hear it, the first song, I mean. Autumn is my favorite season. I wanted to hear another musical version of it. I love the sound of Vivaldi’s Autumn. The first piece of classical music I ever heard. My father always played it for me.”

            “Autumn is my favorite season too.” Then Aki sees it dawn on him. “Of course, Aki, autumn.”

She smiles in response. “Adderley’s saxophone is beautiful. But mournful. It is the essence of autumn. I must say, it touched me.”

 There is silence between them as the sax swirls like the leaves in the vortex the first day she met him.

 Aki thinks to warn him about Natsumi. Her sister bores quickly, then gets distracted by other men. But she changes her mind. If Aki says something it will seem like she is competing with her sister for his attention. If she says nothing…  It saddens her to think that his quick smile and gentle nature would be hurt by Natsumi.

            “Your English is fluent. I wish I could speak Japanese so well.”

            “You will, especially if you plan on staying in Japan.” Aki is embarrassed with herself for this shameless digging. But he doesn’t offer any assurance that he will remain in the country. “I studied English at school since I was a young girl and now my university courses are in English.” She pauses as she straightens out a display. “Natsumi wants us to plan a music night for you. She says you are a jazz guitarist?”

            “Yes, she said I can plan on next Saturday night. Thank you for hosting me.”

            “I’m sorry we can’t pay you.”

            “I am happy to get the gig just the same.”

            “Gig?”

            “A performance, a show.”

            “Oh, yes. Gig. I like that word.” She continues to fuss with the display. “I told Natsumi that it was too soon. I don’t think we can get enough people to attend.”

            “That’s ok. I’ll take what I can get. I just want a chance to play.” Ian uses his chin to nod at the book on the counter. “What are you reading, anything interesting?”

            “Murakami, 1Q84. Are you familiar with him?”

He reaches into his backpack and pulls out his copy of Murakami’s short story collection The Elephant Vanishes. “More coincidences. Funny, this feels like a Murakami moment, doesn’t it? Sort of outside of time and space.”

            “Yes, it does.” She has run out of things to organize so she looks up at him. “I like Murakami’s stories. Which one are you reading now?”

            On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl. Do you know it?”

            “No, I’m sorry to say I don’t. Tell me about it.”

“It’s about a guy who passes a girl on the street and in the instant he knows immediately that she is perfect for him. He imagines what he might say to her.”

            “Does he?”

            “Does he what?”

            “Does he say anything to her?”

            “No, that’s just it, the whole story is what he imagines, but he never says any of it, he just walks on.”

            “That’s sad.”

            Their eyes linger on each other in silence. The phone rings. The Murakami moment comes to an end.

*  *  *

The following Saturday Aki dusts and polishes all the surfaces. Natsumi hangs streamers. Aki reminds every client that walks in of the jazz guitarist from America who will be performing tonight. His debut appearance in Japan. Special concert just for Lovely!

At eight o’clock Natsumi takes her coat off the hook.

            “Where are you going? The concert starts in an hour.”

            “I have a date. You can manage, can’t you?”

            “But what about Ian?”

            “He’ll be fine. Don’t wait up.”

With that she leaves. Aki is left standing in the middle of the room.

There is too much to do to focus on her anger at her sister so she sets a table in the corner with snacks and hot tea, then she arranges the chairs.

Ian arrives and warms up. Between pieces he looks around, searching. Aki feels bad for him; he is looking for Natsumi.

At nine o’clock there is only an elderly couple in the front, and a young man leaning on the record stacks by the side of the chairs. Ian looks both nervous and disappointed but he starts playing. His music is at once playful and serious. He switches between upbeat and languid, and Aki doesn’t just hear the music, she senses it with her whole body.  

When he finishes his first few pieces he looks into the sparse audience and the few claps he is receiving. In the back of the room sitting in the last row alone is Aki. Smiling broadly and clapping fervently.

He smiles at her and starts the opening strings of Autumn Leaves.

*  *  *

Ian plays three sets. Over the course of the evening some stragglers appear. Walking by the store they are captured by the sounds wafting from the door, they come in and take a seat.

When he is done there are a dozen people clapping for his performance. Some linger and ask about buying a CD. Aki watches Ian as he graciously accepts the praise and shakes hands or bows awkwardly. Once they are all gone, he starts stacking chairs. In silence they finish putting the store back in order.

She turns out the lights and locks the door. He waits for her and they walk together, not speaking. With his guitar slung over his back, he walks his bike by her side.

It’s almost midnight, and they pass through Teramachi, the covered shopping arcade that intersects the city. Auld Lange Syne plays in the background as one and then another shop turns out their lights.

They exit onto the main street where the rain has started. The wind picks up and he gives her his jacket.

Neither opens an umbrella.

******************

Tina deBellegarde is the author of the Batavia-on-Hudson series, the latest publication being Winter Witness. For an interview with the author, please see here.

Featured writing

Lovely! (Part One)

LOVELY!
A short story by Tina deBellegarde

A buffeting wind shakes the display window and Aki looks up from the register. Outside is a tall young man, certainly a foreigner, his back to the window, reading off of a scrap of paper in one hand, holding the handlebar of his bicycle with the other. The wind twirls the autumn leaves around him in a vortex. The rain is just beginning but he carries no umbrella and doesn’t raise his hood. For a moment all Aki sees is this stranger, framed by the window, alone on the pavement. She feels potential wrapped in his presence, the drama of the wind and the leaves an omen. There is a rumbling in her chest.

Her sister Natsumi always laughs at her seriousness, at how she sees the world. Aki on the other hand believes that Natsumi doesn’t see the world at all.

The young man refers to the paper again and turns around. She watches his serious expression brighten at the painted sign on their window. Lovely! New and Used Records.

He leans his bike in the corner, pulls the door and steps in. The wind follows him, depositing two red maple leaves on the floor just inside the door.

Irasshaimase, welcome,” she says as he enters.

 A lazy echo comes from under the counter where her sister is feeding the elusive store cat, Kuro.

The young man nods to Aki in response.

“Sumimasen. Excuse me,” he says looking at the leaves on the otherwise pristine floor. He moves to pick them up and Aki puts up her hand to stop him.

“Please don’t pick them up. They are lovely just as they are.” Aki says in English.

He wanders for a moment, taking in the old Showa era posters from the 1960s, the comfortable arm chairs, the hanging plants in the window, and the cramped crates of music. An uptick in the classical cello piece playing overhead catches his attention and he looks up and around to find the speakers. She is pleased. She knows the sound system is excellent and the music was her choice. Aki continues to watch him as he admires the store. She senses his happiness, it is pure and obvious on his face. He has found a place that speaks to him.

He looks up and straight at her. He catches her watching him. Before she can move away from his gaze he smiles a slow and deliberate smile. She is powerless not to smile back because in that moment she sees past his smile to something else. She doesn’t know what that something else is yet, but she feels that this very ordinary moment is not ordinary at all.

It is an instant.

Then it is gone.

Natsumi pokes her head up. She sees the handsome newcomer and scoots out from behind the counter. “How can I help you?” she asks in Japanese. Her short shorts and sandals are out of season but set off her legs beautifully.

He politely waves away Natsumi’s help coupled with a word or two of textbook Japanese. His gaze lingers on Natsumi, and with a mild blush on his face he starts to flip through the albums. Aki turns away, not willing to watch another one fall under Natsumi’s spell. She tugs at her modest skirt and removes her glasses.

Natsumi shrugs and joins Aki by the new display.

Aki doesn’t approve of her older sister’s approach in the store, or her approach to most things for that matter. Aki believes that clients want privacy and time to be with their thoughts. To listen to the music, not Natsumi’s voice. “Just because you want silence doesn’t mean everyone does,” her sister debates, but Aki feels that she could turn the argument the other way as well. Just because Natsumi is outgoing doesn’t mean everyone else is comfortable with that. Better to err on the side of restraint, she feels. This disagreement is at the core of the difference between the sisters. One rushes forward and acts, usually before thinking and often makes mistakes, but she makes them with gusto. The other holds back and thinks, often too much, and frequently has regrets.

Together the girls work on the new seasonal display. Aki is shorter and paints red maple leaves on the window. They appear to float to the ground. Aki had been correct earlier, she thinks, since the two leaves in the entryway look as if they have been placed there intentionally to accent the window painting.

Natsumi paints words over Aki’s leaves. “Why be as normal, when possibly you are so lovely!” The slogan was Natsumi’s idea, she said all the chic stores have English slogans. Aki told her the English wasn’t correct but Natsumi is stubborn and continues to paint.

Aki catches another glimpse of the young man as he browses the store. This time she is more careful not to be caught but sees enough to notice that his features are rugged yet refined and his hair is wavy and unruly. He wears his glasses with confidence like a fashion accessory rather than a necessity. She can discern this because she never feels pretty in her own glasses.

Aki notices that her sister is not so cowardly. She makes blatant eye contact and he cannot help but stare back. Aki knows that Natsumi’s looks are hard for men to ignore. Aki loves her sister but sometimes wished Natsumi’s figure wasn’t so perfect or her smile so stunning. Aki knows she is pretty too but can’t help feeling the sun always shines brighter over Natsumi.

He finds the jazz section and settles into a worn armchair to listen to some selections on the demo machine. He slips on the headphones.  

Kare ga suki.” Natsumi tilts her head toward Aki.

“You like every boy,” Aki whispers back to her sister.

“What’s wrong with that?” Natsumi asked.

Aki knew what was wrong with it. Not all boys are equal. Not all boys are worth the trouble. But sometimes one just clicks…

After a while he removes the headphones and returns to the counter.

Sumimasen, excuse me. Do you have Cannonball Adderley’s album Somethin’ Else?”

His accent is American, not British. And his T-shirt slogan is written in good English. I speak fluent movie quotes. Obviously not made in Japan.

With the paint brush still in hand, Natsumi heads to the jazz section to look for the record but Aki beats her to it. Aki knows most of the inventory; she is a compulsive organizer.

“We don’t have what you are looking for but we do have his album from his 1963 concert in Tokyo.” Aki turns to their rare collection behind the counter and hands him a vintage album.

Autumn Leaves is just the piece I’m looking for. Thank you. This may be even better. Ikura desu ka?

“It is 4,450 yen.”

“Oh. I can’t afford that at the moment. I didn’t bring enough money today.” He blunders first in poor Japanese and finally in English.

“I’m sorry. Even in Japan this album is rather rare.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s worth it. Maybe next time.”

“I will save it for you, then? I don’t want you to miss out on it. You can pay…on time? Is that the correct expression?”

“Thank you, yes.” That smile again. Then he slips his hands deep in his pockets and shrugs his shoulders. Looking for the next thing to say.

Lovely, such an unusual name for a record shop. But appropriate under the circumstances.” He turns to one and then the other lovely girl before him. He says this with confidence but once silent he is almost blushing. Aki finds his fluctuations between self-assurance and discomfort very endearing. Pushing forward and pulling back, a paradox she understood very well.

“Yes, we are just dressing for the windows. Window dressing. We don’t know much about music.” Natsumi turns to him with the paint brush in her hand and nearly brushes his clothes.

The two of them laugh comfortably. This is what Natsumi possesses in abundance, what makes her so attractive to both men and women, her nonchalance.

“I’m sure the owner hired you for your brains not just your beauty.”

“No, the owner is our aunt. She definitely hired us for our beauty,” Natsumi says looking at him with no embarrassment.

Aki does not understand how she can be so bold. But Aki chimes in to preserve a place for herself in the conversation.

“She inherited the business from our uncle. He named the store Lovely! because he believed all his customers came in to see his lovely wife. She was the secret to his success he used to say. So our aunt saw no reason to change.”

The phone rings and both girls stare at it but neither moves. Aki finally answers, Moshi, moshi.”

Natsumi turns to him.

“My name is Natsumi, what is your name?”

“Ian. Hajimemashite.”

Natsumi giggles. “You are so polite for an American. Where are you from? New York? L.A.?”

“New York, I am here in Kyoto teaching English. And you are from Kyoto I take it?”

“No, we are from Osaka. Aki is my sister. We study at Kyoto University. We work part time for our aunt for a room. In exchange for a room.” Natsumi stumbles with her English but Ian doesn’t seem to notice.

Aki turns a stern face at her sister and motions her to whisper.

“What are you playing on your turntable?” He whispers to Natsumi.

“I don’t know anything about classical music. But that is all Aki plays.”

Aki puts down the receiver. “Dvorak. String Quartet #12 in F major. Coincidentally named The American.

“Don’t let Aki fool you. She knows nothing of classical music. She is teaching herself. She started with the letter A. Today she is on D.”

“It’s very meditative music. And a coincidence, you’re right,” Ian says.

“As Natsumi says, I am just learning, but­­­—”

“It’s my break, Aki. I’m going next door for ramen.” She turns to Ian. “You look hungry. Won’t you join me?” Natsumi grabs her leather jacket from the peg by the door.

Ian hesitates. “Are you coming?” He says to Aki.

He waits a moment longer then gives in like all the others and follows Natsumi out the door.

Aki watches them leave.

On the floor in front of the counter Aki finds a crumpled piece of paper napkin. The Black Cat Jazz Club, Tokyo. In the corner is an illustration of a black cat with a red bow tie, his tail wrapped around the stem of a martini glass. On the reverse side is a map and the address for Lovely! New and Used Records. It smells like peppermint. She folds it neatly and slips it in her pocket.

*  *  *

Tina deBellegarde is the author of the Batavia-on-Hudson series, the latest publication being Winter Witness. For an interview with the author, please see here.

Writers in focus

After Act (Stephen Mansfield)

After Act
by Stephen Mansfield

I’m reading a short story by Michael Moorcock, in which the narrator describes his time in Hamburg, among friends who believed they were “descendants of those who had perished when Atlantis was destroyed by atom bombs dropped from flying saucers.”
At any other time, in normal circumstances, that is, I would be suitably incredulous, the mechanisms that operate suspension of disbelief, kicking in. In this Year of the Great Pestilence, 2020, little surprises me. I owe the improbable events of this annus horribilis, unforeseen by oracles or clairvoyants, to an expansion of credibility, a greater capacity to venture into new dimensions of truth, actuality, and untested probability.
Even the specifications of this modest Japanese home my wife and I share, are changing. Our casual scorn for the prefabricated poverty of the building has mellowed into something like affection and gratitude for a structure that has become a shelter. A home that protects us, its diminutive quadrangle of garden, a cordon sanitaire.
This pandemic must surely be the most exactingly documented event in human history. Future generations will be able to pick over the calamity in fastidious detail, with the morbid curiosity enjoyed by people standing at a distance, the safe remove of history. In these most existential of times, disasters are nothing if not associative. Watching the streams of masked pedestrians passing in front of the house, I think of Kamon Rider. Donald Trump talks of Zorro. A more literate friend asks me if the title of Mishima Yukio’s Confessions of a Mask has any bearing on the subject, or would he be better off consulting Albert Camus’s The Plague? In an effort to sound learned, I recommend the closing passages of Giovanni Boccaccio’s 1353 masterpiece, The Decameron, in which ten Florentines flee their death city for the hills, where they distract themselves by recounting a series of tales. A reading of the work is instructive. “What was particularly virulent about this plague,” he wrote, “was that it would leap from the sick to the healthy whenever they were together, much as fire catches hold of dry or oily material that’s brought close to it.”
Writers and scribes have left harrowing accounts of other catastrophes. The storms, crop failures and famines of 1315, for example, are remarkably well-documented. In Poland, the desperately poor, we read, fed off hanging bodies removed from gibbets. With bubonic plague, the Black Death, the end came within days. A third of the world’s population are said to have perished, the pestilence leading to profound economic, social and political change, the disease undermining those in authority, or at least, those perceived to have been wanting in their response or compassion. Before Constantinople was established as the source, many believed the infections came from China.
Perhaps there is something perverse about reading virus related literature, but, as chance would have it, I was half way through Daniel Defoe’s 1722, A Journal of the Plague Year, in mid-January, when the first intimations of the pandemic were sensed. Defoe wrote, “Many families, foreseeing the approach of the distemper laid up stores of provisions sufficient for their whole families, and shut themselves up, and that so entirely, that they were neither seen or heard of till the infection was quite ceased.” In cities like Florence, the wealthy, quarantining themselves until the worst was over, withdrew to spacious villas, sending out servants for food, wine and delicacies. Defoe’s plague, like Boccaccio’s, is an avatar of death, of history going up in flames, but also of enlightenment. Sifting even further back through my bookshelves, I find that Thucydides has a thing or two to say about plagues in fifth-century Athens, confiding, “There was especially high mortality among doctors.”
If there are disarming parallels with today, these writers would have no difficulty in recognizing many of our behavioral responses to a crisis of this magnitude: the selfishness, hoarding, official prevarication, finger-pointing, conspiracy theories, complacency, random acts of kindness and incidents of genuine heroism, the invoking of divine forces, the almost superstitious faith in new prophylactics. The fog of lassitude. Strange lapses into ennui. We believed in progress as a panacea for ill fortune, that the natural forces of history, in their darkness and malevolence, were safely behind us, consigned to an age when doctors bled patients with leeches, witches were drowned in village ponds, and peasant hovels, feebly lit with lumps of tallow.
It’s feasible that, if the virus doesn’t destroy us, our minds will. In this struggle for health and sanity, the beachheads will be research clinics and the insides of our skulls. Providence seldom conspires to bring about happy outcomes, but I am now of the inspiring conviction that, life being mutable, we possess the power to radically change, without precipitating fresh crisis. Camus’s narrative, we recall, demonstrated the possibility of human solidarity in the face of an absurd and hollow universe. For the time being, the planets are still in alignment.
It will be some time, though, before euphoria of the kind that follows the extermination of deadly diseases or vermin, is felt. Before temple bells are rung, hosannas sung in churches, ululations made in mosques, the stanchions and steel cables of Rainbow Bridge illuminated in lurid strokes of cellophane-red, green and blue. The cognitive effects of overlong confinement are still sinking in. In a prolonged miasma of patience and forbearance, I’m experiencing that kind of fidgety energy people feel before the airplane doors are opened.
To steady our nerves and refresh the senses, my wife is burning incense in the next room. The fragrance of camphor reminds me of the moxa Basho applied to his legs in order to fortify them before setting off on his great haiku journey to the deep north. We will soon be making our own journey, back into the world, into a newly shriven, disinfected multiverse we may not recognize at first, but will be grateful that it exists at all.

***************

The above was written for an anthology of sci-fi and fantasy to be publshed by Excalibur, an independent publisher based in Tokyo. It will be published in three parts, as an incomplete e-book in October (Part 1), then with additions in the spring. The paperback edition, along with another e-book, with all entries, will be published next July. The title is to be Dimensions Unknown Volume 3: The Phantom Games

For an account of Stephen’s lunchtime talk for WiK, please see here.

                                                                 *

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

The Gluck Kingdom (M.R. Louis)

The Gluck Kingdom
by Michaël R. Louis
Copyright © 2020 Michaël R. Louis
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13 : 979-8-6573-2631-4

Extract from Chapter 3

HOPES AND WANDERINGS

Mr. Kawamoto gets out of his luxurious gray sedan, grabs his briefcase and climbs quickly the stairs of the town hall. He is late for the city council. He does not like these meetings, the big room is cold and humid and if he can find pleasure in negotiating, he does not really respect his peers. The city mayor in particular may be supportive and more efficient than his predecessors, but could not have been elected without the businessman’s endorsement.

Mr. Kawamoto hoped to stimulate the economic life of the province and perhaps one day establish a political career there. But he was not there yet. In the short term, he needed above all to develop his business and give the taste of success to the other members of the board. When he was younger, he made the mistake of believing this would be an easy task, but the restlessness of other council members had lost him many opportunities. For a reason that he could not understand, some citizens just wanted to stay anchored in the past, even if it meant letting their cities wither away little by little with the exodus of the young generations.

He had therefore prepared his project carefully and it was with confidence that he pushed open the heavy door of the meeting room. He rushes in while his peers are standing talking together and goes straight to the mayor, shaking hands with him ostensibly. He then nods to the mayor’s political adviser who is attending the meeting and has proven his usefulness on several occasions. He quickly greets a few notables and settles down in his seat. The other advisers are called to do the same so that the session officially begins.

Several innocuous matters are called to the vote, most of them known for a long time and included in the city’s annual budget. Had his project not been a topic of the day, he would have argued that he had a business trip to avoid this tedious session. However, the agenda for the day included the planning permission to build a shopping center on the edge of the municipality. Mr. Kawamoto’s construction companies will naturally be called upon to participate in the project and the mayor sees it as a definite opportunity to energize the city.

The voice of a CDP adviser, Mr Kato, however, is against the project. The old man represents this fraction of the population who opposes Mr. Kawamoto’s projects. Mr Kawamoto stares at his opponent, Mr Kato, whose small stature gives him a frail appearance. While many advisers make the effort to wear a suit, Mr. Kato’s brown cotton jacket contrasts with the seriousness of this assembly. For the businessman, the serene face of Mr Kato, his attachment to great and obscure principles, betray the arrogance of a life spent in the security of a function, a life spent without the daily struggles necessary to bring a livelihood for employees and their families.
Mr. Kawamoto would do better without such representatives, but there are not so many volunteers to participate in the municipal council. Mr. Kato was originally from Hokkaido, but, as time went by, he had built up a solid network of friendships in the community …Mr Kawamoto reckoned that any great man would have to deal with such opposition as he endeavors to brush off his frustration.

Mr Kato stands up and calmly states his arguments: he insists repeatedly on the environmental impact of the project, which will affect the quality of life of residents in the vicinity of the new center, and stresses the risk of competition with town shops, who owners are already struggling to generate enough revenue. His words ring true, especially as the supply of shopping centers in neighboring cities is already quite large.

Mr Kawamoto frowns at the mayor, who is taking too long to intervene to his liking. Mr Kawamoto grumbles: “What is wrong with him? It’s as if he is buying into all that nonsense. He must be half asleep once again”. Mr Kawamoto now looks towards the political adviser, his disillusioned look betrays his anguish. The adviser had understood very well that the situation was taking a wrong turn, but was waiting for Mr Kawamoto to come to him and recognize his contribution to solving this hazardous path. It does not take him much effort to fix the issue: the advisor makes a few steps towards the mayor, who pulls himself together as he notices the adviser’s maneuver.

The mayor stands up, raising his hand to take back control of the meeting. He stresses the importance for the city to remain competitive towards other economic hubs and highlights the benefits of innovation for the province. The answer does not satisfy Mr. Kato, who would like to fight back, but the mayor quickly calls for a vote. Mr Kawamoto had already secured the number of votes required to win the ballot long before this day and the business is therefore finally settled. As the meeting ends, Mr. Kawamoto leaves victorious and satisfied to be able to go on with his projects.

As usual after his official meetings, Mr. Kawamoto leaves to visit his father, to whom he reports on current affairs and inquires about his health. The old man lives on the edge of town in a traditional house standing high on the side of a hill. Mr. Kawamoto climbs the ten-meter staircase to reach the front door.

As a child, he took pride in this house which gave him the impression that his family was of some importance, after all, the guests who went to their homes had to pay a considerable effort to do so. Growing up though, Mr. Kawamoto realized the drawbacks of such a home and began to envy those of his friends who lived in apartments in the city center. Perhaps, it was at this point in his life that his calling as a real estate developer really began. On the right of the house, his parents had established a beautiful traditional tsukiyama garden, but after the death of his mother, the garden had lost its appearance, his father contenting himself with regularly pruning the branches of black pines.

Whatever the financial limits of his family, Mr. Kawamoto had always kept the greatest respect for his father. Over the years, he had gained a reputation for being reliable in the community and the region, and his wise advice had guided him on numerous occasions. He was in a way the guarantor of respectability that many ambitious entrepreneurs could not have.

Mr Kawamoto sits down, as always, at the family table and the two men slowly drink a cup of tea before talking about the agenda of the day.

Writers in focus

The beauty and the watchtower

by Jann Williams

There is one woman that connects me with Kyoto like no other. We met a few years ago at a gallery soiree and have been inseparable ever since. Hailing from different eras, different countries and different cultures, this apprentice geisha and I share an enduring bond. Both of our lives have been indelibly changed by the imposing watchtowers of Nijo Castle – sentinels that have stood guard for centuries. 

Nearly 100 years ago Miki Suizan chose a Nijo watchtower as the milieu for my maiko friend. She brings his woodblock print Nijojo no tsuki (Moon on Nijo Castle) to life. My lodgings in Kyoto come with a strikingly similar watchtower view, one that is unceasingly welcoming. The setting takes my breath away. It will be marvellous to once again feel the energy of this place once international travel restrictions are lifted.

Nijo Castle was selected as one of the Noted Places of Kyoto by Suizan and the enigmatic beauty is one of his bijinga (beautiful person pictures) created in 1924. Unable to interpret her gaze, I sense that she is waiting for someone. Her muted winter clothing protects her from the cold. I have witnessed snow blanket Nijojo so know how chilly it can be. In contrast another maiko, immortalised the same year in a woodblock print by Tsuchida Bakusen, wears a vibrant summer kimono. The seasons in Kyoto are distinctive, delightful and at times demanding.

In 1930 my maiko friend travelled to Toledo with five other Suizan beauties from the ancient capital. The goal was to help promote the shin hanga (new prints) movement in the United States. In 2013 the Toledo Museum of Art revisited this watershed exhibition. The original catalogue was updated and renamed ‘Fresh Impressions.’ Given a new lease of life, the influence of the Nijo Castle beauty is spreading. I followed in her American footsteps in 1988 on a different type of grand adventure with my sister Ruth and nephew Louis.

It was in 1996 that the seeds of my relationship with Japan were sown. An international forest management meeting in Yokohama and related scientific gathering near Mt Fuji took me there the first time. My enduring memories of Japanese culture from that visit are an exquisite ceramic bowl (which came to Australia) and a taiko performance at the conference dinner. The drumming seemingly seeped into my soul. That’s a story for another time.

Twenty years later, when the Nijo watchtower view and Suizan bijinga entered my consciousness, my affinity with Japan had truly blossomed. It was becoming a home away from home. What else but destiny could have drawn us together? 

For now, the beauty and the watchtower, bathed in moonlight, adorns our bedroom wall in Tasmania. I would love to know the name of my Kyoto friend. She is a reminder of a place currently out of reach, yet one that will be waiting when it is possible to return. What a special day that will be.

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