philosophy, isn't it. Not such a bad way of thinking about life. Sort of a reincarnation, New Age kind of thing. But, Kafka, remember this, okay? I don't go around giving my cell phone number to just anybody. You know what I mean?'
I appreciate it, I tell her. I fold up the piece of paper and stick it in the pocket of my windbreaker. Thinking better of it, I transfer it to my wallet.
'So how long'll you be in Takamatsu?' Sakura asks.
'I don't know yet,' I say. 'It depends on how things go.'
She gazes intently at me, her head tilted slightly to one side. Okay, whatever, she might be thinking. She climbs into a cab, gives a little wave, and takes off.
Once again I'm all alone. Sakura, I think-not my sister's name. But names are changed easily enough. Especially when you're trying to try to run away from somebody.
I have a reservation at a business hotel in Takamatsu. The YMCA in Tokyo had told me about the place, and through them I got a discount on the room. But that's only for the first three days, then it goes back to the normal room rate.
If I really wanted to save money, I could just sack out on a bench in front of the station, or since it's still warm out, I could sleep in my sleeping bag in a park somewhere. But then the cops will come and card me-the one thing I have to avoid at all costs. That's why I went for the hotel reservation, at least for three days. After that I'll figure something out.
At the station I pop into the first little diner that catches my eye, and eat my fill of udon. Born and raised in Tokyo, I haven't had much udon in my life. But now I'm in Udon Central-Shikoku-and confronted with noodles like nothing I've ever seen. They're chewy and fresh, and the soup smells great, really fragrant. And talk about cheap. It all tastes so good I order seconds, and for the first time in who knows how long, I'm happily stuffed. Afterward I plop myself down on a bench in the plaza next to the station and gaze up at the sunny sky. I'm free, I remind myself. Like the clouds floating across the sky, I'm all by myself, totally free.
I decide to kill time till evening at a library. Ever since I was little I've loved to spend time in the reading rooms of libraries, so I've come to Takamatsu armed with info on all the libraries in and around the city. Think about it-a little kid who doesn't want to go home doesn't have many places he can go. Coffee shops and movie theaters are off-limits. That leaves only libraries, and they're perfect-no entrance fee, nobody getting all hot and bothered if a kid comes in. You just sit down and read whatever you want. I always rode my bike to the local public library after school. Even on holidays that's where you'd find me. I'd devour anything and everything-novels, biographies, histories, whatever was lying around. Once I'd gone through all the children's books, I went on to the general stacks and books for adults. I might not always get much out of them, but I forged on to the very last page. When I got tired of reading I'd go into one of those listening booths with headphones and enjoy some music. I had no idea about music so I just went down the row of CDs they had there, giving them all a listen. That's how I got to know about Duke Ellington, the Beatles, and Led Zeppelin.
The library was like a second home. Or maybe more like a real home, more than the place I lived in. By going every day I got to know all the lady librarians who worked there. They knew my name and always said hi. I was painfully shy, though, and could barely reply.
Before coming to Takamatsu I found out some wealthy man from an old family in the suburbs had renovated his personal library into a private library open to the public. The place has a lot of rare books, and I heard that the building itself and the surrounding garden were worth checking out. I saw a photo of the place once in Taiyo magazine. It's a large, Japanese-style house with this really elegant reading room that looks more like a parlor, where people are sitting with their books on comfortable-looking sofas. For some reason that photo really stayed with me, and I wanted to see this in person if someday the chance came along. The Komura Memorial Library, the place was called.
I go over to the tourist information booth at the station and ask how to get there. A pleasant middle-aged lady marks the spot on a tourist map and gives me instructions on which train to take. It's about a twenty-minute ride, she explains. I thank her and study the schedule posted inside the station. Trains run about every twenty minutes. I have some time, so I pick up a takeout lunch at one of the little shops.
The train is just two little cars coupled together. The tracks cut through a high-rise shopping district, then past a mix of small shops and houses, factories and warehouses. Next comes a park and an apartment building under construction. I press my face against the window, drinking in the unfamiliar sights. I've hardly ever been outside of Tokyo, and everything looks fresh and new. The train I'm on, going out of town, is nearly empty this time of the morning, but the platforms on the other side are packed with junior and senior high school kids in summer uniforms, schoolbags slung across their shoulders. All heading to school. Not me, though. I'm alone, going in the opposite direction. We're on different tracks in more ways than one. All of a sudden the air feels thin and something heavy is bearing down on my chest. Am I really doing the right thing? The thought makes me feel helpless, isolated. I turn my back on the schoolkids and try not to look at them anymore.
The train runs along the sea for a time, then cuts inland. We pass tall fields of corn, grapevines, tangerine trees growing on terraced hills. An occasional irrigation pond sparkles in the sunlight. A river winding through a flat stretch of land looks cool and inviting, an empty lot is overgrown with summer grasses. At one point we pass a dog standing by the tracks, staring vacantly at the train rushing by. Watching this scenery makes me feel warm and calm all over again. You're going to be okay, I tell myself, taking a deep breath. All you can do is forge on ahead.
At the station I follow the map and walk north past rows of old stores and houses. Both sides of the street are lined with walls around people's homes. I've never seen so many different kinds-black walls made out of boards, white walls, granite block walls, stone walls with hedges on top. The whole place is still and silent, with no one else on the street. Hardly any cars pass by. The air smells like the sea, which must be nearby. I listen carefully but can't hear any waves. Far off, though, I hear the faint bee-like buzz of an electric saw, maybe from a construction site. Small signs with arrows pointing toward the library line the road from the station, so I can't get lost.
Right in front of the Komura Memorial Library's imposing front gate stand two neatly trimmed plum trees. Inside the gate a gravel path winds past other beautifully manicured bushes and trees-pines and magnolias, kerria and azaleas-with not a fallen leaf in sight. A couple of stone lanterns peek out between the trees, as does a small pond. Finally I get to the intricately designed entrance. I come to a halt in front of the open front door, hesitating for a moment about going inside. This place doesn't look like any library I've ever seen. But having come all this way I might as well take the plunge. Just inside the entrance a young man is sitting behind a counter where you check your bags. I slough off my backpack, then take off my sunglasses and cap.
'Is this your first visit?' he asks me in a relaxed, quiet voice. It's slightly high-pitched, but smooth and soothing.
I nod, but the words don't come. The question takes me by surprise and makes me kind of tense.
A long, freshly sharpened pencil between his fingers, the young man gazes intently at my face for a while. The pencil is yellow, with an eraser at the end. The man's face is on the small side, his features regular. Pretty, rather than handsome, might describe him best. He's wearing a button-down white cotton shirt and olive green chinos, with not a single wrinkle on either. When he looks down his longish hair falls over his brow, and occasionally he notices this and fingers it back. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, revealing slender white wrists. Delicately framed glasses nicely complement his features. The small plastic name tag pinned to his chest says Oshima. Not exactly the type of librarian I'm used to.
'Feel free to use the stacks,' he tells me, 'and if you find a book you'd like to read, just bring it to the reading room. Rare books have a red seal on them, and for those you'll need to fill out a request card. Over there to the right is the reference room. There's a card index and a computer you can use to search for material. We don't allow any books to be checked out. We don't carry any magazines or newspapers. No cameras are allowed. And neither is making copies of anything. All food and beverages should be consumed outside on the benches. And we close at five.' He lays his pencil on the desk and adds, 'Are you in high school?'
'Yes, I am,' I say after taking a deep breath.
'This library is a little different from the ones you're probably used to,' he says. 'We specialize in certain genres of books, mainly old books by tanka and haiku poets. Naturally, we have a selection of general books as well. Most of the people who ride the train all the way out here are doing research in those fields. No one comes here to read the latest Stephen King novel. We might get the occasional graduate student, but very seldom someone your age. So-are you researching tanka or haiku, then?'
