Come autumn, fellow pedestrians will occasionally stop still in the middle of the pavement or while turning a corner, and say, their tone suddenly lightening, “Oh, osmanthus! How lovely!” It wears me down to explain each and every time how I used to pay frequent visits to the Ear, Nose, and Throat Hospital when I was younger to try to sort out my rhinitis—to explain that with the pointy machine they stuck up my nose, its weird and repetitive buzzing as it sucked up the mucus, and the strange sensation this provoked, I eventually got fed up with the endless hospital visits and stopped going—and since then, have just been making do with over-the-counter drugs. So when people go on and on about the fragrance of osmanthus, I sometimes pretend to understand what they’re talking about and agree with them, although really I don’t have the foggiest idea what sets it apart. At these times, the only thing I’m really marveling at is how popular this osmanthus scent seems to be. On the rare occasion when I confess that I have no idea how it smells, people react as if I’m some hard-hearted brute. Other flowers don’t seem to provoke such a violent reaction, so I assume osmanthus must be special in some way.
I’ve even met people who’ve said they wished there were a perfume that smelled like osmanthus. Perfume isn’t really my area of expertise either, obviously. I’ve never bought a single bottle of the stuff. Once or twice, I’ve tried out perfumes that people have given me, but it felt stupid to be walking around wearing a fragrance that I myself couldn’t smell, so I stopped.
When you have no sense of smell, you can rule out a lot of options in life. For example, I have zero interest in aromatherapy or incense, which are all the rage now. Magazines and commercials agree that incorporating such products into your daily routine has a healing effect and facilitates a more relaxed way of living, which makes me think that maybe I’ve missed out entirely on the experience of being healed. What does it feel like, I wonder, to be healed like that?
But now I can see it’s a good thing that I’ve bypassed all of that fragrance stuff. I realized that just the other day when I stumbled across an article online about how aromatherapy can be harmful to cats. As it happens, I never once used aroma oils or anything like that around the house when Tortie was alive, but if my nose had functioned normally and I hadn’t known about the effect of oils on cats, then I may well have. In general, I’m not that reliant on the internet, but I do think it’s useful sometimes. It was through the internet that I found out that the smell of mint can have an adverse effect on cats, too. But thanks to my nose problems, fragrant plants have never had a place in my life either. What fortune!
Not that I’m fortunate all the time, of course. Recently, I came down with a cold although it really isn’t the cold season, and while I was tucked up in bed recovering, the supply of incense for the home altar ran out. Reluctant to go out shopping when I was feeling under the weather, I went into my dad’s room for the first time in ages and managed to root out some old incense in one of his drawers. His room is basically as it was when he died. Anyway, it was scented incense that I found, not the kind you’re supposed to burn on altars, but I decided to use it anyhow. I know people are funny about that stuff, but it doesn’t bother me too much. Probably something to do with my reduced olfactory capabilities. Without fragrance to go on, there’s not much to differentiate between incense for altars and the regular kind. They’re all thin little lines that launch other thin little lines into the air, as though they’re trying to grow taller. Incense smoke always looks to me like a soul emerging from a body. A weakling soul. From time to time, I reach out and try to stroke those weakling souls, but they always slip through my fingers, rise higher, and then disappear. Where do souls go after they’ve disappeared, I wonder?
Anyway, I didn’t really see any problem with my incense repurposing, so I kept on using on the altar the stuff I’d found in my dad’s drawer. I guess you could call me sloppy in that regard. I didn’t know how old it was, but there was about half of it left in the box. I recovered from my cold soon enough and had resumed my habit of stopping at the nearby shopping arcade on a daily basis—but even when I passed by shops selling altar incense, I’d think, well, I still have that other stuff left over—and then I’d just keep walking. I was more interested in the asparagus on sale for eighty-eight yen a bunch.
One day, as usual, I lit a stick of incense on the altar and was just starting to fold up my washing when I heard someone say in a pained voice, “Ermm, I’m sorry to bother you. I can see you’re busy.”
The voice had a confident, solid timbre. Assuming that some guy collecting money or soliciting for something or other had made his way up to the house through the front garden, I looked over to the window, but there was no one there.
“Oh, sorry. I’m over by the altar.”
I turned my head and, sure enough, right by the altar was a man wearing a suit and black-framed glasses, floating in midair. I was sitting down on the tatami, so I was saved the trouble of falling on my backside in shock. I looked up at the floating man in amazement.
“Please don’t be alarmed,
