impressed or else mutters some fragmentary comment I can't catch. Both of them are dressed more for mountain climbing than for visiting a library, each wearing a waterproof vest with a million pockets, sturdy lace-up boots, and hiking hats. Maybe this is how they always dress when they go on a trip, who knows. They seem okay-not that I'd want them as parents or anything-and I'm relieved not to be the only one taking the tour.
Miss Saeki begins by explaining the library's history-basically the same story Oshima told me. How they opened to the public the books and paintings the umpteenth head of the family had collected, devoting the library to the region's cultural development. A foundation was set up based on the Komura fortune and now managed the library and occasionally sponsored lectures, chamber music concerts, and the like. The building itself dated from the early Meiji period, when it was built to serve double duty as the family library and guesthouse. In the Taisho period it was completely renovated as a two-story building, with the addition of magnificent guest rooms for visiting writers and artists. From the Taisho to the early Showa period, many famous artists visited the Komuras, leaving behind mementos-poems, sketches, and paintings-in gratitude for having been allowed to stay here.
'You'll be able to view some selected items from this valuable collection in the second-floor gallery,' Miss Saeki adds. 'Before World War II, a vibrant local culture was established less through the efforts of local government than those of wealthy connoisseurs such as the Komura family. They were, in short, patrons of the arts. Kagawa Prefecture has produced quite a number of talented tanka and haiku poets, and one reason for this was the dedication with which the Komura family founded and supported the local art scene. Quite a number of books, essays, and reminiscences have been published on the history of these fascinating artistic circles, all of which are in our reading room. I hope you'll take the opportunity to look at them.
'The heads of the Komura family down through the years have been well versed in the arts, with an especially refined appreciation of the truly excellent. This might have run in the blood. They were very discerning patrons of the arts, supporting artists with the highest aims who produced the most outstanding works. But as you're surely aware, in the arts there is no such thing as an absolutely perfect eye. Unfortunately, some exceptional artists did not win their favor or were not received by them as they deserved to be. One of these was the haiku poet Taneda Santoka. According to the guestbook, Santoka stayed here on numerous occasions, each time leaving behind poems and drawings. The head of the family, however, called him a 'beggar and a braggart,' wouldn't have much to do with him, and in fact threw away most of these works.'
'What a terrible waste,' the lady from Osaka says, apparently truly sorry to hear this. 'Nowadays Santoka fetches a hefty price.'
'You're exactly right,' Miss Saeki says, beaming. 'But at the time, he was an unknown, so perhaps it couldn't be helped. There are many things we only see clearly in retrospect.'
'You got that right,' the husband pipes in.
After this Miss Saeki guides us around the first floor, showing us the stacks, the reading room, the rare-books collection.
'When he built this library, the head of the family decided not to follow the simple and elegant style favored by artists in Kyoto, instead choosing a design more like a rustic dwelling. Still, as you can see, in contrast to the bold structure of the building, the furnishings and picture frames are quite elaborate and luxurious. The carving of these wooden panels, for instance, is very elegant. All the finest master craftsmen in Shikoku were assembled to work on the construction.'
Our little group starts upstairs, a vaulted ceiling soaring over the staircase. The ebony railing's so highly polished it looks like you'll leave a mark if you touch it. On a stained-glass window next to the landing, a deer stretches out its neck to nibble at some grapes. There are two parlors on the second floor, as well as a spacious hall that in the past was probably lined with tatami for banquets and gatherings. Now the floor is plain wood, and the walls are covered with framed calligraphy, hanging scrolls, and Japanese-style paintings. In the center, a glass case displays various mementos and the story behind each. One parlor is in the Japanese style, the other Western. The Western-style room contains a large writing desk and a swivel chair that look like someone's still using. There's a line of pines outside the window behind the desk, and the horizon's faintly visible between the trees.
The couple from Osaka walks around the parlor, inspecting all the items, reading the explanations in the pamphlet. Every time the wife makes a comment, the husband chimes in to second her opinion. A lucky couple that agrees on everything. The things on display don't do much for me, so I check out the details of the building's construction. While I'm nosing around the Western parlor Miss Saeki comes up to me and says, 'You can sit in that chair, if you'd like to. Shiga Naoya and Tanizaki both sat there at one time or another. Not that this is the same chair, of course.'
I sit down on the swivel chair and quietly rest my hands on the desk.
'How is it? Feel like you could write something?'
I blush a little and shake my head. Miss Saeki laughs and goes back to the couple. From the chair I watch how she carries herself, every motion natural and elegant. I can't express it well, but there's definitely something special about it, as if her retreating figure is trying to tell me something she couldn't express while facing me. But what this is, I haven't a clue. Face it, I remind myself-there're tons of things you don't have a clue about.
Still seated, I give the room a once-over. On the wall is an oil painting, apparently of the seashore nearby. It's done in an old-fashioned style, but the colors are fresh and alive. On top of the desk is a large ashtray and a lamp with a green lampshade. I push the switch and, sure enough, the light comes on. A black clock hangs on the opposite wall, an antique by the looks of it, though the hands tell the right time. There are round spots worn here and there into the wooden floor, and it creaks slightly when you walk on it.
At the end of the tour the Osaka couple thanks Miss Saeki and disappears. It turns out they're members of a tanka circle in the Kansai region. I wonder what kind of poems they compose-the husband, especially. Grunts and nods don't add up to poetry. But maybe writing poetry brings out some hidden talent in the guy.
I return to the reading room and pick up where I'd left off in my book. Over the afternoon a few other readers filter in, most of them with those reading glasses old people wear and that everybody looks the same in. Time passes slowly. Nobody says a word, everyone lost in quiet reading. One person sits at a desk jotting down notes, but the rest are sitting there silently, not moving, totally absorbed. Just like me.
At five o'clock I shut my book and put it back on the shelf. At the exit I ask, 'What time do you open in the morning?'
'Eleven,' Oshima replies. 'Planning on coming back tomorrow?'
'If it's no bother.'
Oshima narrows his eyes as he looks at me. 'Of course not. A library's a place for people who want to read. I'd be happy if you came back. I hope you don't mind my asking, but do you always carry that backpack with you? It looks pretty heavy. What in the world could be inside? A stack of Krugerrands, perhaps?'
I blush.
'Don't worry-I'm not really trying to find out.' Oshima presses the eraser end of his pencil against his right temple. 'Well, see you tomorrow.'
'Bye,' I say.
Instead of raising his hand, he lifts his pencil in farewell.
I take the train back to Takamatsu Station. For dinner I stop inside a cheap diner near the station and order chicken cutlet and a salad. I have a second helping of rice and a glass of warm milk after the meal. At a mini-mart outside I buy a bottle of mineral water and two rice balls in case I get hungry in the middle of the night, then start for my hotel. I walk not too fast or too slow, at an ordinary pace just like everybody else, so no one notices me.
The hotel is pretty large, a typical second-rate business hotel. I fill in the register at the front desk, giving Kafka instead of my real first name, a phony address and age, and pay for one night. I'm a little nervous, but none of the clerks seem suspicious. Nobody yells out, Hey, we can see right through your ruse, you little fifteen-year-old runaway! Everything goes smooth as silk, business as usual.
The elevator clanks ominously to the sixth floor. The room is minuscule, outfitted with an uninviting bed, a rock-hard pillow, a miniature excuse for a desk, a tiny TV, sun-bleached curtains. The bathroom is barely the size of a closet, with none of those little complimentary shampoo or conditioner bottles. The view out the window is of the wall of the building next door. I shouldn't complain, though, since I have a roof over my head and hot water coming out of the tap. I plunk my backpack on the floor, sit down on the chair, and try to acclimatize myself to the surroundings.
