The Smell of Old Books

I'm stopped dead in my tracks before I've taken half a step. A cool touch washes over my skin...

Her fingers are wrapped around my wrist.

My muscles yank to attention. I can almost feel the pulse of her thumb beating against my veins. Neck tight, the process of turning around is laborious. The leaping of my heart has left a rigid lump in my throat that proves difficult for mere movement to overcome. I turn back, her placid eyes seemingly waiting for mine to meet them.

I am captured by the casual, patient indifference of her face. Time is slower than anything. She blinks once, then twice. The ticking of the clock echoes endlessly inside my ears and, vaguely, from somewhere else, I hear the patter of the rain.

I shiver.

"The receipt," she says, indicating with her eyes the scrap of paper resting on the counter, near the plastic tray she should have used to offer it to me.

As quickly as they came, her fingers release my wrist.

"I'm very sorry!" I blurt out, snatching the receipt and cramming it into my jacket pocket before offering a jerky bow of apology. "Thank you for your kindness today, I'll be going now!" My heels clop against the hardwood as I nearly twist my ankle in the haste of my escape. Ears on fire, I hurl myself back out into the torrential rain...

...sans umbrella.

It's half a block before I come to my senses, walking so quickly it was almost like running. Taking a moment to catch my breath, I look up into the great, gloomy skies above. The storm clouds seem to crackle, alive with potent energy. The thinning crowd passes around me without complaint, like a swarm of ants navigating past an inconvenient pebble. Solitary in this moment, fingers curl around wrist and squeeze down hard against my veins, as if I could replicate the odd voltage of her touch.

Sometimes, I think being eaten would be preferable. With a clench and a jerk, I would find myself swallowed, too sudden to know, and everything would blot out, and the world would become black.

Closing my eyes, I indulge in the warm summer rain pattering down upon my face. Exposed to everything, the downpour soaking my hair, my clothes, and my body all the way through, I start to laugh.

***

Though the train is packed, every eye is focused on me and my soaked grey suit—in a facially polite way, of course. Throughout the hour-long train ride, they only look when they believe I won't notice. To assist them in their endeavor, I stare out the window. The tall buildings rush by in a blur, like they were fleeing something dreadful. Working my fingers against the heavy parcel, I struggle to ignore how audibly each drip of water impacts the floor.

I am emphatically aware of my ruined makeup.

Sometimes, I think the beast is the people, who stare at you, but don't, who wonder about you, but don't, who offer comfort, but don't.

My apartment is a short walk from the station. I take it as briskly as I can. I am very late.

It's a small home for a family, but such are these economic times. I'm happy enough to have two rooms, now that Haruki's old enough to have his own.

Thankfully, I return home before the arrival of Ms. Sachigawa, our elderly neighbor and Haruki's after-school caretaker. I remove my shoes and retrieve my phone from my purse, finally able to check it now that I'm out of the rain. I have a text from Naoki

July 2th, 6:23 PM

Later night than usual.

Late nights at the office, and after-hours drinks on top of that, are expected of any salary man. But when I receive these texts, always with that exact wording, they suggest at something different, almost like a cipher in a thriller movie—albeit one with a hackneyed, overused plot twist.

It's strange, how these "later-than-usual" nights always seem to fall on Tuesdays...

To be honest, I'm not sure if his indiscretions ever actually bothered me or if that was another case of societal expectations. For a time, because I assumed they should bother me, I allowed that feeling to fester in my stomach like a foreign virus. Either way, I got over it rather quickly. It became just another thing, something that exists, like anything else, and he's never been anything but discreet. I respect that; that's my feelings on the matter.

Still, I sigh.

I take off my shoes, hang up my purse, and place my phone on the kitchen counter. I start the rice cooker for dinner. Scanning the kitchenette and thinking about what to make, for some reason my eyes fall upon the bottle of merlot tucked away in one of the cabinets above the sink. Its long green neck and red seal are the only things visible behind the hodgepodge rows of miscellany. I stare at it, for a while, until the uneasy shrug of my shoulders against the sodden weight of my clothes gets me moving again.

I'm only halfway to the bathroom before the doorbell rings. I wipe my face with a hand towel from the kitchen and make a futile attempt at collecting my bedraggled hair.

"Mommy, mommy!" Haruki sprints through the door as soon as it's open a crack and hugs his arms around my legs, barreling into me hard enough that I stumble backwards a step. "Look what I got!"

As I struggle to greet Ms. Sachigawa, Haruki confronts me with a handful of explosively colored playing cards from his favorite anime.

"You shouldn't have," I say, giving her an abashed smile. "He has so many already."

Ms. Sachigawa rebukes me with a wave of her hand. "Ah, it's best to spoil them while you still can. They're only young once!"

Only a bit shorter than me, Ms. Sachigawa has a wizened, happy face and her coarse hair, done up in a simple bun, has lost most of its color. She's rather advanced in years, but her thin, papery voice belies her energy.

She tut-tuts her tongue against her teeth as she glances me up and down. "What's the matter, Mari-chan? Didn't you check the weather forecast this morning?"

She is, sometimes, regretfully perceptive. What's more fascinating is that she has no compunctions about letting you know it. This is the freedom of the elderly, I suppose. I don't begrudge her that; if anything, I envy it.

"No, I did..." Again, I'm forced to bear the damp weight of my clothing like a guilty verdict. "Somehow, I managed to... forget my umbrella at work—ah! Haruki, your shoes!"

Haruki stops blessedly short of tromping all over the carpet. He unceremoniously flops down onto the floor and begins undoing his laces.

"Well it's clear which parent he takes after!" she says, cackling with overt affection. "Go change. I'll stay with him for a few more minutes."

"Thank you," I say. Before I go, grip Haruki by his hair and ruffle him firmly. "Did you thank Sachigawa-san for her gift?"

"Thank you!" Haruki screeches.

"You're quite welcome!" Ms. Sachigawa trills back with blustery grandiosity, beckoning him to her so I may escape to the bathroom.

As far as I know, Ms. Sachigawa has never been married or had children. I believe she derives a great deal of pleasure caring for Haruki a few hours a day—though I would never say that out loud, for fear of belittling her generosity.

I towel off my hair and pull it back with a tie, clean my face, hang my wet clothes over the tub, and change into some loose grey slacks and a soft black sweater. I rush, it only takes me a few minutes, but when I return, Haruki has already dragged Ms. Sachigawa to the couch and sat her down. With a scholarly air, he expounds on the impressive scope of his collection of trading cards and their individual purposes.

"Haruki, that's enough," I say, with affection. Touching his shoulders, I guide him to sit on the floor with his cards so Ms. Sachigawa has room to stand up. "Thank you so much," I say. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

"For what?" she asks, nonchalantly taking my wrist and using my support to drag herself up from the couch with a depleted groan. I open the door for her. Exiting the apartment, she pauses in her somehow spritely shuffle to glance behind me, towards the short, dark hallway to the bedroom. "Will Naoki-san make it home for dinner?"

"It's Tuesday," I say.

Her eyebrows twist with quiet insight. Her fingers fold around my forearm. "It's difficult, isn't it?"

"No, I..." Feeling flush, I look away for a moment to compose my thoughts.

I'm surprised the question causes me to hesitate. As I said, I've long since resolved my feelings on the matter. I don't mind. In fact, I think it's good. He should have someone who can tend to those needs as he deserves.

I've just never had the opportunity to say these ideas aloud before.

Thankfully, whatever treacherous desire I have to compose these thoughts into words is interrupted by Haruki's intrusion into the conversation.

"He'll be home before bedtime, won't he?" he moans, fanning his new cards across the table. "I wanted to show him these..."

Though it does concern me, if this might affect Haruki in some way.

But then, it's the way of things. Couldn't he say the same about my decision to continue working?

"Well, you can show them to me," I offer.

"It's not the same," he says. "You're a girl."

"But so is Sachigawa-san."

"Well," he says, categorically distracted, running his fingers over the glossy pictures and exploring the corners of the cardboard. "It's a bit different, with her."

I turn back to Ms. Sachigawa when her hand squeezes around my upper arm. "They're like that at this age," she whispers. The creases around her eyes look a bit deeper, in the bleak hallway lighting. "Why don't I stay a few hours, we'll whip up some dinner?"

"You've done so much already; please, go rest."

"I suppose, I suppose." She purses her lips one way, then the other, looking equally as if she were considering some essential truth as she were sucking on a hard candy. "Well, you'll make it through. We always do." The wrinkles of her face soften as her smile returns. She wags a finger. "Try to be a bit less forgetful, though. You're not a young mother anymore, he'll pick up on these things!"

"I will," I say, thanking her again with a bow, and her hoarse cackling continues down the hallway even after I shut the door.

Sometimes, I think human beings are a solitary creature. Like giant herbivores—a dinosaur, say—their strength and size mean they've no need to band into packs to fend off predators. And so, they come together only rarely, when fate leads them to graze from the same tree.

"Haruki," I say. "That was a rude thing you said, and in front of Sachigawa-san too."

Without further prompting, Haruki stands and wanders towards me, hugging his arms around my legs and resting his head against my belly.

When not distracted, Haruki is actually a very emotionally intuitive child. I've always been proud of him for that. It seems like, often, we're trained to respond to how we believe people should be feeling, instead of how they actually are. I hope he never loses this knack.

After a brief hug, I scoop under his shoulders—surprise attack!—and yank him off his feet. Placing my nose against his small one, I affect a very stern expression. "Sorry, are you?" I growl. He writhes in my arms, kicking his feet into the air and clipping his toes against my legs.

"Fighting back, eh? We'll just see about that."

But then, I am still. With mock gravity, I fix his face with a stolid expression. Looking into my eyes, rapt, he has no idea of my intent until I begin to wriggle my fingers at his sides.

"Stop, stop!" he begs, exploding into giggles, screeching, and flailing his arms and legs.

I grin and give no quarter, continuing my assault all the way to his armpits. "Have you learned your lesson?"

"Yes! Ha-ha-ve muh-muhr-cy!"

All at once I stop, pulling him into a deep hug.

"Ah~" he complains against my ear.

Perhaps I did squeeze a bit hard, but isn't that a mother's right? I set Haruki down. He looks perturbed, though he still returns to hug me around my legs. Rubbing his face against my sweater, he asks, "Why do you always pick me up so much? It's embarrassing."

"It's only because..." I pause, sorting my fingers through his short hair. Because... Because... "Because you're getting so big, and soon I won't be able to anymore."

He seems to mull on this, just for a bit, before he softly says, "Then I guess it's okay." His nose presses into my stomach. "I'm sorry for what I said, I didn't mean it."

"I know you didn't, you're a good boy." I transfer my hands to a loose hold against his shoulders, and start to rock him gently. "But your mom can be cool too, you know. She used to read manga."

Haruki blinks up at me. Brewing excitement seizes his voice. "Like Naruto?"

"Well, no," I say. "When I was young, I read manga for girls."

"For girls? Sounds boring."

His adroit response pulls a sharp laugh out of me. "They usually were!" ...but the sound trails off into a soft hum as my mind traces through some wispy memory. "But I still liked them..." As I run my hand up and down his back, and hold him close, Haruki's stomach emits a growl. I kneel to him, eye to eye, and hold his face. "Now, how about you tell me all about your new cards while I make us dinner?"

I prepare a small, simple meal—miso soup and donburi, from last night's leftover chicken. As I cook, and then we eat, I reply with wonder and amazement while Haruki describes his cards, and the accordant anime battles they represent.

But inside, I wonder about the depth of passion these shows exhibit. Always some climactic battle, always someone to save, someone to defeat, someone to love. I think back on the manga I used to read—flamboyant, pretentious, girly titles like The Rose of Versailles. I admired Lady Oscar's passion, and the verve with which she expressed her emotions. Often entire pages would be devoted to her wrenching grief, hand clutching breast, tears streaming down her cheeks, sparkling like starlight. I remember... wondering if I would ever feel that way for anyone, for anything.

Sometimes, I think the beast is this mythology. Myths are like lies, but kind ones; they tell you what ought to be true but isn't—they tell you there are so many things in life worth striving for that you couldn't hold them all, not even with both hands. They tell you there is so much worth fighting for you'll never have the time to feel tired, or bored, or that your life had no meaning. They tell you, with complete sincerity, that passion is an ever-present fuel to stoke the roaring bonfire of your heart...

I smile at Haruki all through dinner, and he continues regaling me with the story of his anime even as I'm ushering him to his bath. I'm amazed at how so much there is to say on the matter, let alone at his ability to synthesize it. I wonder if we should've scrimped more so we could've looked into private schools with more challenging curriculums. He's very intelligent for his age. If he becomes bored, he might not commit to his studies. It's not like when I was young, and high school was the only thing that really mattered. Now...

Sometimes, I think passion is more like sparks from an anvil: burning bright enough to blind you, and instantly gone. You'd almost call this a generous act, the lie that fiction tells—or perhaps a palliative one—a bit of hope and comfort in the face of a grinding, difficult world. But, in a sense, it hardly matters.

I will away such thoughts so I can enjoy the rest of our evening together, reading to him, tucking him into bed. I stay with him for a while, even after he's asleep, my knees bent to fit myself beside him on the small futon, looking up into the darkness of the ceiling, tracing the patterns of the outside lights filtering in through the venetian blinds, and listening to the measured sound of his breathing.

I go back out to clean up the remnants of dinner. As I'm aggressively scrubbing a pan, hands forearm-deep in thick, purple latex gloves, I pause to wipe the building sweat from my forehead. Looking up, right in front of me is that bottle of merlot, secreted away in its cabinet...

It's heavy, even holding it in both hands. And the cork pops loose with a satisfying chunk! as I twist the opener in and use all my strength to pull it free.

***

I dream of Rie.

It was so many years ago I'd almost forgotten. It's funny how easily memories fade, when you stalwartly refuse to cling to them.

"You should read it!" she exhorts, wagging her father's aged paperback copy of The Temple of The Golden Pavilion by Yukio Mishima towards me. "It's truly excellent!"

"Dude, it's booooooring." I used to like saying Dude! back then, ejaculating it at the beginning of sentences like a crude oath. I think I thought it was funny, adopting this roguish, juvenile way of speaking. "Some old guy who died before we were even born. Plus, he's so weird! All those pictures of him in a loincloth, waving a sword around. What's a guy like that got to stay that could possibly relate to us?"

"Plenty of stuff!" The book's cover is cracked like dry earth, its spine acutely creased, and the bent corners of its pages seemed ready to flake away as she shook it at me. "It's about beauty, cruelty, isolation. Some people call him the most intelligent writer of his time, you know."

Sometimes Rie could be a real drag! With black hair almost to her waist, flawless skin, and always-perfect makeup, Rie had not just looks, but style and fashion so impeccable she made it look effortless. She'd coast through life as a glamor model or a pop idol—if we weren't trapped in this podunk country town, that is. So why'd she always go and pressure you with this book stuff? It was so nerdy!

"If he was so smart," I ask, "why'd he kill himself?"

This brings a strange look to Rie's face. She frowns.

For an unknown reason, I ready myself to apologize. But before I can even open my mouth, Rie's frown evaporates in a flash. She lunges, shoving me at the shoulder.

"I'm just trying to educate you, you know!" She grins, wild woman, and snatches for the comic I'm reading. "Get you some culture! Something, anything, besides manga for once!"

I laugh, rolling away from her assault and sprawling out on the floor. Holding my comic at arms length in the air, I riffle the pages, watching the stylized black and white faces and abstract starscapes fly by. Hyperbolic giggles overtake me. "We spend our whole day buried in lessons at school, and now you want me to stick my nose in some old book of my own free will? No thanks!"

"You're reading manga right now!"

"Manga has pictures," I retort with a grin. "No. Reading. Required."

She rolls her eyes. "You're hopeless."

"You're stuck with me," I say.

"Then I guess I'm hopeless too."

We smile, and we sigh.

She sits at her table, and I against her bookshelf, and we read our separate things, somehow together, even doing things apart. The afternoon whiles away without our asking, and soon, orange beams of sunset sneak through the blinds. I watch the ceiling fan cut lazily through the invisible air. The late-August heat is like a glove, and you can hear the summer wind outside wafting carelessly through the reeds. I close my eyes, and focus on the breeze that tickles over my face for a while.

Looking over, I notice Rie's long, lavish hair has been suddenly cut short. It's fetching on her—though, I'll amend, almost any hairstyle would be—but I'm surprised. She'd always teased me about my own hair, which I'd kept short at the time, though in a remarkably less trendy cut than her current one.

Noticing my attention, she turns to me, her thick-rimmed reading glasses slipping down to the point of her nose. "I'll tell you one thing these old books have over your comics."