The building turned out to be unexpectedly cavernous, in a way that Shigeru never would have predicted on first seeing its small, unassuming entrance. The company really did make a miscellany of products, and the manufacturing rooms numbered in the dozens, although the precise number fluctuated on a daily basis, and sometimes Shigeru got the feeling that a staircase or a room he’d never seen before had materialized before his eyes. At those times, though, he’d tell himself that he was still new to the building, and just hadn’t got a proper grasp of its architecture yet. In Shigeru’s current state, none of that stuff really affected him much, anyway. When he went outside, the cherry trees lining the main road were in full bloom, obscuring the contours of the world even further. And for Shigeru’s heart, blurry, ambiguous things were the easiest to bear. He had almost no contact with his university friends who’d now embarked on their new lives. Any hint of peppiness or positivity in their words felt like a stab in Shigeru’s chest. He wanted to minimize the damage that the future was going to deliver him.
Coming and going between home and work, the days passed by uneventfully.
On one of his days off, Shigeru was tidying his mom’s grave as usual when he heard the singing again, this time much more clearly. No doubt the volume control on that stupid singing grave had broken, Shigeru thought. He strained his ears in irritation. He had an impulse to locate exactly where the sound was coming from and break the idiotic thing. The voice crooned:
Please, oh please, my dear,
Please don’t go crying by my graaave.
I’m not in there, you hear,
I’m not sleeping at all.
Shigeru was flabbergasted. He knew this song! It had been a big hit! He and his mom had watched that tenor perform it as part of the Kōhaku song contest, which was on TV every New Year’s Eve. He could remember his mom munching on a rice cracker as she cooed, “Ooh, I like this one.”
But surely, in terms of songs to play in a cemetery, this was about the most inappropriate choice ever. The voice began again, now repeating the same phrase over and over.
I’m not in there, you hear!
I’m not in there, you hear!
I’m not in there, you hear!
It came to Shigeru like a bolt: it was his mom’s voice! And then, as if it had noticed Shigeru’s noticing, the voice fell quiet. However intently he listened, Shigeru could no longer hear anything, not even the sound of the wind. He was standing there all alone, in complete silence.
Today, as always, an endless procession of incense sticks was gliding past Shigeru’s eyes. The sticks that passed inspection would be boxed, wrapped in paper with the words SOUL SUMMONER brushed on in ink, and taken to the shops. Shigeru didn’t know what effect the incense was supposed to have, but he knew it was one of the company’s most popular products. At lunch the other day, he’d asked the women there about it, but they’d giggled and avoided answering the question. Shoveling down his katsu curry, Shigeru then asked the other question that had been on his mind.
“Don’t you think this company’s a bit weird sometimes?”
By now, Shigeru had recovered enough of his mental equilibrium to be able to perceive when something was a bit off. He’d cut back on his graveyard visits, going only every other week. However much he strained his ears, he couldn’t hear the singing anymore these days. He got the sense that maybe, if he greatly increased the number of his visits, he might be able to hear it again—but he also knew that doing so would upset his mom.
“Well, companies are weird, aren’t they,” one of the ladies said after a pause, as she gobbled up the broad strip of deep-fried tofu sitting on top of her kitsune udon. Her slanted eyes and narrow face had a vulpine quality to them, Shigeru noted. And come to think of it, weren’t the kitsune—the fox spirits capable of transforming themselves into humans—supposed to love deep-fried tofu above all other foods? Wasn’t that, in fact, where the dish had got its name? But he brushed off these thoughts as quickly as they had come to him.
“No, that’s not what I mean,” he continued hesitantly, but the women tittered and quickly steered the conversation to the new bakery that had opened up by the station, and whose head pastry chef had allegedly trained in France.
“The savarin is to die for!”
“Oh, but not a patch on the Mont Blanc!”
“I’ve never been. Is it really that good?”
“I’m fairly sure they use only proper butter, not margarine. My gosh, you can taste the difference!”
As Shigeru listened to the conversation unfolding around him, his jaw hanging open, one of the women, with an unusually large mouth, offered to pour him a cup of green tea from the thermos on the table. As she poured, some of the steaming liquid splashed across her arm, but she didn’t bat an eyelid. From the enormous pouch that she carried around with her, the vulpine woman brought out some individually wrapped custard-filled cakes, and everyone at the table let out squeals of joy.
What a peculiar place I’ve ended up in, Shigeru thought to himself.
Loved One
People are always so surprised when I say I don’t know what osmanthus smells like, but I do have my reasons.
