'No,' I answer.
'That's what I thought.'
'Is it still okay for me to use the library?' I ask timidly, trying to keep my voice from cracking.
'Of course.' He smiles and places both hands on the desk. 'This is a library, and anybody who wants to read is welcome. This can be our little secret, but I'm not particularly fond of tanka or haiku myself.'
'It's a really beautiful building,' I say.
He nods. 'The Komura family's been a major sake producer since the Edo period,' he explains, 'and the previous head of the family was quite a bibliophile, nationally famous for scouring the country in search of books. His father was himself a tanka poet, and many writers used to stop by here when they came to Shikoku. Wakayama Bokusui, for instance, or Ishikawa Takuboku, and Shiga Naoya. Some of them must have found it quite comfortable here, because they stayed a long time. All in all, the family spared no expense when it came to the literary arts. What usually happens with a family like that is eventually a descendant squanders the inheritance, but fortunately the Komuras avoided that fate. They enjoyed their hobby, in its place, but made sure the family business did well.'
'So they were rich,' I say, stating the obvious.
'Very much so.' His lips curve ever so slightly. 'They aren't as rich now as they were before the war, but they're still pretty wealthy. Which is why they can maintain such a wonderful library. Of course making it a foundation helps lower their inheritance tax, but that's another story. If you're really interested in this building I suggest you take the little tour at two. It's only once a week, on Tuesdays, which happens to be today. There's a rather unique collection of paintings and drawings on the second floor, and the building itself is, architecturally, quite fascinating. I know you'll enjoy it.'
'Thank you,' I say.
You're quite welcome, his smile suggests. He picks his pencil up again and starts tapping the eraser end on the desk like he's gently encouraging me.
'Are you the one who does the tour?'
Oshima smiles. 'No, I'm just a lowly assistant, I'm afraid. A lady named Miss Saeki is in charge here-my boss. She's related to the Komuras and does the tour herself. I know you'll like her. She's a wonderful person.'
I go into the high-ceilinged stacks and wander among the shelves, searching for a book that looks interesting. Magnificent thick beams run across the ceiling of the room, and gentle early-summer sunlight is shining through the open window, the chatter of birds in the garden filtering in. The books in the shelves in front of me, sure enough, are just like Oshima said, mainly books of Japanese poetry. Tanka and haiku, essays on poetry, biographies of various poets. There are also a lot of books on local history. A shelf farther back contains general humanities-collections of Japanese literature, world literature, and individual writers, classics, philosophy, drama, art history, sociology, history, biography, geography… When I open them, most of the books have the smell of an earlier time leaking out between the pages-a special odor of the knowledge and emotions that for ages have been calmly resting between the covers. Breathing it in, I glance through a few pages before returning each book to its shelf.
Finally I decide on a multivolume set, with beautiful covers, of the Burton translation of The Arabian Nights, pick out one volume, and take it back to the reading room. I've been meaning to read this book. Since the library has just opened for the day, there's no one else there and I have the elegant reading room all to myself. It's exactly like in the photo in the magazine-roomy and comfortable, with a high ceiling. Every once in a while a gentle breeze blows in through the open window, the white curtain rustling softly in air that has a hint of the sea. And I love the comfortable sofa. An old upright piano stands in a corner, and the whole place makes me feel like I'm in some friend's home.
As I relax on the sofa and gaze around the room a thought hits me: This is exactly the place I've been looking for forever. A little hideaway in some sinkhole somewhere. I'd always thought of it as a secret, imaginary place, and can barely believe that it actually exists. I close my eyes and take a breath, and like a gentle cloud the wonder of it all settles over me. I slowly stroke the creamish cover of the sofa, then stand up and walk over to the piano and lift the cover, laying all ten fingers down on the slightly yellowed keys. I shut the cover and walk across the faded grape-patterned carpet to the window and test the antique handle that opens and closes it. I switch the floor lamp on and off, then check out all the paintings hanging on the walls. Finally I plop back down on the sofa and pick up reading where I left off, focusing on The Arabian Nights for a while.
At noon I take my bottle of mineral water and box lunch out to the veranda that faces the garden and sit down to eat. Different kinds of birds fly overhead, fluttering from one tree to the next or flying down to the pond to drink and groom themselves. There are some I've never seen before. A large brown cat makes an appearance, which is their signal to clear out of there, even though the cat looks like he couldn't care less about birds. All he wants is to stretch out on the stepping stones and enjoy the warm sunlight.
'Is your school closed today?' Oshima asks when I drop off my backpack on my way back to the reading room.
'No,' I reply, carefully choosing my words, 'I just decided to take some time off.'
'Refusing to go to school,' he says.
'I guess so.'
Oshima looks at me with great interest. 'You guess so.'
'I'm not refusing to go to school. I just decided not to.'
'Very calmly, all on your own, you stopped going to school?'
I merely nod. I have no idea how to reply.
'According to Aristophanes in Plato's Symposium, in the ancient world of myth there were three types of people,' Oshima says. 'Have you heard about this?'
'No.'
'In ancient times people weren't just male or female, but one of three types: male/male, male/female, or female/female. In other words, each person was made out of the components of two people. Everyone was happy with this arrangement and never really gave it much thought. But then God took a knife and cut everybody in half, right down the middle. So after that the world was divided just into male and female, the upshot being that people spend their time running around trying to locate their missing other half.'
'Why did God do that?'
'Divide people into two? You got me. God works in mysterious ways. There's that whole wrath-of-God thing, all that excessive idealism and so on. My guess is it was punishment for something. Like in the Bible. Adam and Eve and the Fall and so forth.'
'Original sin,' I say.
'That's right, original sin.' Oshima holds his pencil between his middle and index fingers, twirling it ever so slightly as if testing the balance. 'Anyway, my point is that it's really hard for people to live their lives alone.'
Back in the reading room I return to 'The Tale of Abu-l-Hasan, the Wag,' but my mind wanders away from the book. Male/male, male/female, and female/female?
At two o'clock I lay down my book and get up from the sofa to join the tour of the building. Miss Saeki, leading the tour, is a slim woman I'd guess is in her mid-forties. She's a little on the tall side for someone of her generation. She's wearing a blue half-sleeved dress and a cream-colored cardigan, and has excellent posture. Her long hair is loosely tied back, her face very refined and intelligent looking, with beautiful eyes and a shadowy smile playing over her lips, a smile whose sense of completeness is indescribable. It reminds me of a small, sunny spot, the special patch of sunlight you find only in some remote, secluded place. My house back in Tokyo has one just like that in the garden, and ever since I was little I loved that bright little spot.
She makes a strong impression on me, making me feel wistful and nostalgic. Wouldn't it be great if this were my mother? But I think the same thing every time I run across a charming, middle-aged woman. The chances that Miss Saeki's actually my mother are close to zero, I realize. Still, since I have no idea what my mother looks like, or even her name, the possibility does exist, right? There's nothing that rules it out completely.
The only other people taking the tour are a middle-aged couple from Osaka. The wife is short and pudgy with glasses as thick as a Coke bottle. The husband's a skinny guy with hair so stiff I bet he needs a wire brush to tame it. With narrow eyes and a broad forehead, he reminds me of some statue on a southern island, eyes fixed on the horizon. The wife keeps up a one-sided conversation, her husband just grunting out a monosyllable every once in a while to let her know he's still alive. Other than that, he gives the occasional nod to show he's properly
