In the Woods of Memory

She’s been staring at you for a long time.... But it’s not Sayoko.... She’s looking at you and crying.... It isn’t Sayoko.... A woman crying for a man like you? How unusual.... Sayoko, when will you return to the island? ... It doesn’t have to be Sayoko. She wants to talk to you.... I only want to talk to Sayoko.... Don’t glare at her with those unseeing eyes of yours. You’re scaring her.... The sound of the waves has faded.... She’s given up because you look like that... . The wind has grown heavy.... She wiped away her tears with her handkerchief and bowed to you, Seiji.... The scent of the sea has grown stronger.... The other woman bowed, too. They’re standing side by side looking at you. . . . It’s gonna rain tomorrow, Sayoko. . . . They’re leaving with the man. Say something, Seiji.... But I’ll come even if it rains, Sayoko.... You’ll never see them again. Say something!... Are you staring at this ocean and listening to the waves?... They’re gone.... Are you listening to the sound of this wind?... The lunatic is hopeless.... Riding on the waves, riding on the wind, has my voice reached you? . . . Could it possibly have reached her?... It will reach her, Seiji, without a doubt.... Even now, I’m still thinking of you!... Will it rain tomorrow?... Can you hear my voice, Sayoko?

OKINAWAN WRITER [2005]

—Surprised to hear from me, aren’t you? Getting a video like this out of the blue. As you can see, I’ve changed quite a bit from ten years ago. That’s because I’ve got a pretty serious illness, and, uh ... well, I’ll tell you about that later. For now, I’ve got a really important favor to ask of you. You’re the only one I know living in Okinawa, so please watch to the end. I’ll explain everything....

I had to admit I was a bit surprised when I saw the name of the sender on the parcel. I had stayed in touch with Matsumoto for only about two or three years after graduating from college. Back then, we spoke on the phone occasionally, and got together for drinks whenever I was in Tokyo. But as time passed, we saw less and less of each other. Our last meeting was during the summer about ten years ago. I was in Tokyo on business, so I gave him a call, and we got together in a coffee shop near Shinjuku Station. But after about half an hour, Matsumoto seemed to be in a hurry and said he had another appointment. As I watched him leaving the shop, I couldn’t help thinking that I’d been a nuisance. After that, I never called him again. He never contacted me either, so I figured our relationship had simply run its course. I didn’t even feel disappointed.

—To tell the truth, I feel kind of embarrassed talking into a camera like this. Guess I should’ve written instead, huh? But, you know, it’s a real strain for me anymore, staring at the computer. So, uh, I hope you don’t mind if I just make a video. Because even like this, I know I won’t finish in one go. Just let me divide it up into a few days, okay? Anyway, thanks for your understanding....

Matsumoto nodded with a weak smile, and then the video cut off. A second later, he reappeared on screen in the same clothes. Obviously, he’d resumed after a short break. Behind the sofa on which he was sitting was a bookcase filled with books and CDs. Though I had no way to know for sure, I assumed he was at home. Matsumoto had loved to read when we were in college. I was curious about what he’d been reading lately, so I hit the pause button and tried to read the titles. But they were too blurry.

I was born and raised in Okinawa. After graduating from high school, I entered a private university in Tokyo. The change of environment was so overwhelming that I wondered if I’d survive the four years required to graduate. The first train ride of my life was when I went to Tokyo for the entrance exam, and other than the Yamanote Line, I struggled to figure out the trains on my own. I was a country bumpkin, and my keen awareness of that fact made me even more withdrawn. So when Matsumoto, a student in my department, spoke to me, I considered it a favor.

Yes, a favor. Matsumoto made such a big difference in my life, that even now I see it that way. At the time, world music was all the rage. You could hear Shōkichi Kina, Rinken Band, and other Okinawan bands, even on the Japanese mainland. Matsumoto was really into Okinawan music, and that’s why he spoke to me. I answered all his questions about the music, and other questions about the military bases and life in Okinawa. Before long, we were sharing meals and exploring Tokyo together. Gradually, we became friends. Matsumoto was born and raised in Tokyo, so he was a great guide for me. For his part, he seemed to enjoy my surprised reactions to whatever he showed me.

At Matsumoto’s invitation, I joined the literary arts circle. Matsumoto had watched a considerable number of movies and plays, and the breadth of his reading was incredible. So when I submitted my first short story for the group to critique, I couldn’t help feeling embarrassed. Matsumoto had written a quasi-autobiographical novel describing a relationship with an older woman, a work that struck me as being rather sophisticated.

My submission was a forty-page piece about a young island girl raped by American soldiers after the Battle of Okinawa, based on a story I’d heard from my grandmother. The mainland Japanese seemed confused about how to evaluate my work, and few of them expressed an opinion. But Matsumoto complimented me for writing a story that none of them could’ve produced.

Now that