Noboru Wataya, where are you? Did the wind-up bird forget to wind your spring?
The words came to me like lines of poetry.
Noboru Wataya, Where are you?
Did the wind-up bird Forget to wind your spring?
When I was halfway through my beer, the phone started to ring.
Get it, will you? I shouted into the darkness of the living room.
Not me, she said. You get it.
I don't want to.
The phone kept on ringing, stirring up the dust that floated in the darkness. Neither of us said a word. I drank my beer, and Kumiko went on crying soundlessly. I counted twenty rings and gave up. There was no point in counting forever.
2 Full Moon and Eclipse of the Sun
On Horses Dying in the Stables
Is it possible, finally, for one human being to achieve perfect understanding of another?
We can invest enormous time and energy in serious efforts to know another person, but in the end, how close are we able to come to that persons essence? We convince ourselves that we know the other person well, but do we really know anything important about anyone?
I started thinking seriously about such things a week after I quit my job at the law firm.
Never until then- never in the whole course of my life-had I grappled with questions like this.
And why not? Probably because my hands had been full just living. I had simply been too busy to think about myself. Something trivial got me started, just as most important things in the world have small beginnings. One morning after Kumiko rushed through breakfast and left for work, I threw the laundry into the washing machine, made the bed, washed the dishes, and vacuumed. Then, with the cat beside me, I sat on the veranda, checking the want ads and the sales. At noon I had lunch and went to the supermarket. There I bought food for dinner and, from a sale table, bought detergent, tissues, and toilet paper. At home again, I made preparations for dinner and lay down on the sofa with a book, waiting for Kumiko to come home.
Newly unemployed, I found this kind of life refreshing. No more commuting to work on jam-packed subways, no more meetings with people I didn't want to meet. And best of all, I could read any book I wanted, anytime I wanted. I had no idea how long this relaxed lifestyle would continue, but at that point, at least, after a week, I was enjoying it, and I tried hard not to think about the future. This was my one great vacation in life. It would have to end sometime, but until it did I was determined to enjoy it.
That particular evening, though, I was unable to lose myself in the pleasure of reading, because Kumiko was late coming home from work. She never got back later than six-thirty, and if she thought she was going to be delayed by as little as ten minutes, she always let me know. She was like that: almost too conscientious. But that day was an exception. She was still not home after seven, and there was no call. The meat and vegetables were ready and waiting, so that I could cook them the minute she came in. Not that I had any great feast in mind: I would be stir frying thin slices of beef, onions, green peppers, and bean sprouts with a little salt, pepper, soy sauce, and a splash of beer-a recipe from my single days. The rice was done, the miso soup was warm, and the vegetables were all sliced and arranged in separate piles in a large dish, ready for the wok. Only Kumiko was missing. I was hungry enough to think about cooking my own portion and eating alone, but I was not ready to make this move. It just didn't seem right.
I sat at the kitchen table, sipping a beer and munching some slightly soggy soda crackers I had found in the back of the cabinet. I watched the small hand of the clock edging toward-and slowly passing-the seven-thirty position.
It was after nine when she came in. She looked exhausted. Her eyes were bloodshot: a bad sign. Something bad had always happened when her eyes were red.
OK, I told myself, stay cool, keep it simple and low key and natural. Don't get excited.
I'm so sorry, Kumiko said. This one job wouldn't go right. I thought of calling you, but things just kept getting in the way.
Never mind, its all right, don't let it bother you, I said as casually as I could. And in fact, I wasn't feeling bad about it. I had had the same experience any number of times. Going out to work can be tough, not something sweet and peaceful like picking the prettiest rose in your garden for your sick grandmother and spending the day with her, two streets away. Sometimes you have to do unpleasant things with unpleasant people, and the chance to call home never comes up. Thirty seconds is all it would take to say, I'll be home late tonight, and there are telephones everywhere, but you just cant do it.
I started cooking: turned on the gas, put oil in the wok. Kumiko took a beer from the refrigerator and a glass from the cupboard, did a quick inspection of the food I was about to cook, and sat at the kitchen table without a word. Judging from the look on her face, she was not enjoying the beer.
You should have eaten without me, she said. Never mind. I wasn't that hungry. While I fried the meat and vegetables, Kumiko went to wash up. I could hear her washing her face and brushing her teeth. A little later, she came out of the bathroom, holding something. It was the toilet paper and tissues I had bought at the supermarket.
Why did you buy this stuff? she asked, her voice weary.
Holding the wok, I looked at her. Then I looked at the box of tissues and the package of toilet paper. I had no idea what she was trying to say.
What do you mean? They're just tissues and toilet paper. We need those things. Were not exactly out, but they wont rot if they sit around a little while.
No, of course not. But why did you have to buy blue tissues and flower-pattern toilet paper?
I don't get it, I said, controlling myself. They were on sale. Blue tissues are not going to turn your nose blue. Whats the big deal?
It is a big deal. I hate blue tissues and flower-pattern toilet paper. Didn't you know that? No, I didn't, I said. Why do you hate them? How should I know why I hate them? I just do. You hate telephone covers, and thermos bottles with flower decorations, and bell-bottom jeans with rivets, and me having my nails manicured. Not even you can say why. Its just a matter of taste.
In fact, I could have explained my reasons for all those things, but of course I did not. All right, I said. Its just a matter of taste. But can you tell me that in the six years we've been married you never once bought blue tissues or flower-pattern toilet paper?
Never. Not once. Really? Yes, really. The tissues I buy are either white or yellow or pink. And I absolutely never buy toilet paper with patterns on it. I'm just shocked that you could live with me all this time and not be aware of that.
It was shocking to me, too, to realize that in six long years I had never once used blue tissues or patterned toilet paper.
And while I'm at it, let me say this, she continued. I absolutely detest beef stir fried with green peppers. Did you know that?
No, I didn't, I said.
Well, its true. And don't ask me why. I just cant stand the smell of the two of them cooking in the same pan.
You mean to say that in six years you have never once cooked beef and green peppers together?
She shook her head. I'll eat green peppers in a salad. I'll fry beef with onions. But I have never once cooked beef and green peppers together.
I heaved a sigh. Haven't you ever thought it strange? she asked. Thought it strange? I never even noticed, I said, taking a moment to consider whether, since marrying, I had in fact ever eaten anything stir fried containing beef and green peppers. Of course, it was impossible for me to recall.