Let’s just say I accomplished absolutely nothing during the two years leading up to the spring of my junior year in college. Every move I made in my quest to become an able participant in society (to associate wholesomely with members of the opposite sex, to devote myself to my studies, to temper my flesh) somehow missed its mark, and I ended up making all sorts of moves, as if on purpose, that need not have been made at all (to isolate myself from the opposite sex, to abandon my studies, to allow my flesh to deteriorate). How did that happen?
We must ask the person responsible. And who is responsible?
It’s not as if I was born this way.
Fresh from the womb I was innocence incarnate, every bit as precious as the Shining Prince Genji must have been in his infancy. My smile, without a hint of malice, is said to have filled the mountains and valleys of my birthplace with the radiance of love. And now what has become of me? Whenever I look in the mirror I am swept up in a storm of anger. How the hell did you end up like this? You’ve come so far, and this is all you amount to?
“You’re still young,” some would say. “It’s never too late to change.”
Are you fucking kidding me?
They say that the soul of a child at three remains the same even when the man reaches a hundred. So what good can it do for a splendid young man of twenty-one, nearly a quarter century old, to put a lot of sloppy effort into transforming his character? The most he can do in attempting to force the stiffened tower of his personality to bend is to snap it right in half.
I must shoulder the burden of my current self for the rest of my life. I mustn’t avert my eyes from that reality.
I can’t look away, but it’s just so hard to watch.
* * *
It’s said that people who become an obstacle to someone on their path to love will be kicked by a horse and die, so as a rule I stay away from the riding grounds on the lonely north edge of campus. If I were to go anywhere near there, the unbroken horses would probably fly into a rage and jump the fence to gang up on me—I’d be trampled into shreds of soiled meat you couldn’t even use to make sukiyaki. For the same reason, I am also terrified of Kyoto Prefecture’s mounted police.
Why am I so scared of horses? Because even among people I don’t know, I am notorious as an Obstructor of Romance. I am a dark Cupid costumed as a god of death who wields not arrows of love, but a battle-ax. Red threads of destiny are strung around like infrared sensors, and I cut every last one in range, severing the invisible bonds between would-be lovers. Young men and women have shed barrels of bitter tears over these acts of mine.
It’s the height of injustice, I know.
When I began college, even I sometimes quivered slightly with the thought that I just might have a rose-colored courtship ahead of me. And only a few months later, though it was clear there was no need to so temper my resolve, I had even decided in my head: I will not behave like a wild animal. In the company of beautiful maidens I will be a purehearted, proper gentleman. In any case, I should have had the capacity to turn a blind eye to those men and women who forsook reason to recklessly pair off.
Instead, at some point I lost that capacity and turned into the kind of heinous fiend who delights in the sound of red threads being severed. Broken-Heart Alley, where snippets of red thread float in puddles of bitter tears . . . I stepped into this cramped backstreet of despair under the guidance of a detestable character, a man who is both my mortal enemy and sworn comrade.
* * *
Ozu was in the same year as me. Despite being registered in the Department of Electrical and Electronic Engineering, he hated electricity, electronics, and engineering. At the end of freshman year he had received so few credits, and with such low grades, it made you wonder whether there was any point to him being there; but Ozu himself didn’t give a damn.
Because he hated vegetables and ate only instant foods, his face was such a creepy color it looked like he’d been living on the far side of the moon. Eight out of ten people who met him walking down the street at night would take him for a yokai goblin. The other two would be shapeshifted yokai themselves. Ozu kicked those who were down and buttered up anyone stronger than him. He was selfish and arrogant, lazy and contrary. He never studied, had not a crumb of pride, and fueled himself on other people’s misfortunes. There was not a single praiseworthy bone in his body. If only I had never met him, my soul would surely be less tainted.
On that note, we must say that joining the Ablutions film club in the spring of my freshman year was my first big mistake.
* * *
At the time, I was a fresh-as-a-daisy-man. I remember how exhilarating the vibrant green of the cherry tree leaves was after all the flower petals had fallen.
Any new student walking through campus gets club flyers thrust upon them, and I was weighed down with so many that my capacity for processing information had been far overwhelmed. There were all sorts of flyers, but the four that caught my eye were as follows: the Ablutions film club, a bizarre “Disciples Wanted” notice, the Mellow softball club, and the underground organization Lucky Cat Chinese Food. They all seemed pretty shady, but each one represented a doorway into a new college-student life, and my curiosity was piqued. The fact that I thought a fun future would be waiting on the other side, no matter which door I chose, just goes to show what an incorrigible idiot I was.
After my classes were over, I headed to the clock tower. All kinds of clubs were meeting there to take new students to orientations.
The area around the clock was bustling with freshmen, their cheeks flushed with hope, and welcoming committee members ready to prey on them. It seemed to me that here there were innumerable entryways leading to that elusive prize—a rose-colored campus life—and I walked among them half in a daze.
I found several students waiting with a sign for the film club, Ablutions. They were holding a screening to welcome new students and offered to show me the way. Thinking back on it now, I should not have gone with them. But “Let’s all have fun making movies together!” they said, and I was smooth-talked. So, blinded by the prospect of a rose-colored future, I joined the club that very day.
I should have made a hundred friends, but instead I found myself wandering down a path of beasts, making only enemies.
Though I joined the club, I couldn’t quite get used to the obnoxiously pally atmosphere. I told myself, This is a trial to be overcome. It is by boldly mingling with this abnormally cheerful group that I will be guaranteed a rose-colored campus life, a black-haired maiden, and, indeed, the world. But I was beginning to lose heart.
Driven into a dark corner, I found myself standing next to a creepy fellow with a terribly inauspicious-looking face. Atfirst I thought he was a messenger from hell only I, with my heightened sensitivities, could see.
That was how I met Ozu.
* * *
I’m going to jump ahead two years to the end of May in our junior year.
I was sitting on the floor of my four-and-a-half-mat tatami room, which one couldn’t help but love, exchanging scornful looks with Ozu, whom one couldn’t help but hate.
My base of operations was a room at Shimogamo Yusuiso in Shimogamo Izumikawacho. From what I heard, it had been standing there since being rebuilt after burning down in the disorder accompanying the last days of the Tokugawa shogunate. If there hadn’t been light seeping through the windows, the building would have been taken for abandoned. No wonder I thought I must have wandered into the walled city of Kowloon when I first visited the place on the university co-op’s introduction. The three-story wooden structure caused all those who saw it anxiety; it seemed ready to collapse at any moment. Its dilapidation was practically Important Cultural Property level. Certainly no one would miss it if it burned down. In fact, there was no doubt in my mind that this would be a load off for its landlady, who lived just to the east.
That night, Ozu had come over to hang out.
We drank together in our gloom. “Got anything to eat?” he said, so I grilled some fish burgers in my toaster oven, but after one bite he whined, “What about some actual meat? I want beef tongue with salty green onion sauce.” He was pissing me off so much that I shoved one of the sizzling patties into his mouth, but then I forgave him when I saw tears silently rolling down his cheeks.
That May, after spending two years single-mindedly wreaking social havoc in the Ablutions film club, we took the initiative to exile ourselves from it. They say a bird doesn’t foul its nest when it leaves, but we fouled that nest with all our might, to the point that it was as polluted as the Yellow River.
I kept hanging around with Ozu as usual, but even after we exiled ourselves from Ablutions, he continued to be busy with this and that. Apparently, he was dabbling in a sports club and the activities of some strange organization as well. Even his coming to see me that night was only because he had been to visit someone else living on the second floor of my building. He called that person “Master” and had been coming to Shimogamo Yusuiso since freshman year. So the reason I had such a hard time breaking our fatal bond was not only that we had been driven into the same dark corner within the same club, but also that he frequented my lodgings. Whenever I asked him who this “master” was, he would only smirk this obscene smirk. I figured they must just talk smut.
I was completely cut off from Ablutions, but Ozu with his sharp ears would always have tidbits of news for me as I stewed in my displeasure. We had staked what little honor we had on reform within the club and now had nothing left to stake on anything, but according to Ozu, the protest we risked our very lives on had been in vain, and the club hadn’t changed at all.
The alcohol helped fuel the anger surging inside me. I was exiled from my club, just going back and forth between my room and school like some kind of ascetic, and I’d had enough. I could feel a dark passion being called awake, and Ozu was stupidly good at whipping it into a frenzy.
“Hey. That little plan of ours? Let’s go for it,” he said with a strange wiggle of his creature-like body.
“All right.”
“Then we’re on. I’ll come by tomorrow night ready to go,” he said, leaving with a smile on his face.
Somehow I had the feeling I’d been expertly played . . .
I tried to sleep, but the Chinese study-abroad kids on the second floor were having a noisy get-together. I was sort of hungry, so I got out of bed thinking I’d go get some Neko Ramen and wandered out into the night.
* * *
That night I had my first encounter with the god who lived on the second floor of Shimogamo Yusuiso.
Neko Ramen is a ramen stand rumored to make its soup from cats. Regardless of whether that’s true or not, the flavor is unparalleled. It’d probably be a pain if I revealed its location here, so I won’t write too much. Suffice it to say it’s in the neighborhood of Shimogamo Shrine.
As I was sitting there slurping my ramen, wavering between ecstasy and anxiety over the unique taste, a customer came in and sat next to me. I glanced over and noted how strange he was.
He looked perfectly nonchalant in his navy yukata and wore geta clogs like those you might find on a tengu spirit. Something about him reminded me of a mountain hermit. I looked up from my bowl, and as I observed this mystery man, I realized I had seen him a few times around Shimogamo Yusuiso. I’d seen him from behind, creaking his way up the stairs; I’d seen him from behind, out on the balcony sunbathing while getting his hair cut by a foreign exchange student; I’d seen him from behind, washing some mysterious fruit in the common-use sink. His hair looked like Typhoon No. 8 had just blown through, and the eyes set in his eggplant-shaped head had a carefree look in them. His age was unclear; he might have been older, but he could just as easily have been a college student. I certainly didn’t think he was a god.
He seemed to know the owner of the ramen joint, and they grinned while chattering back and forth about this and that. Turning to his bowl, he slurped up the noodles with enough force to make Niagara Falls flow upward. Before I was even done with my noodles, he was downing the last of his soup. A truly godlike feat.
After he finished his ramen, he stared at me rather intently. Eventually, he addressed me in a terribly outmoded fashion. “My good sir, you live at Shimogamo Yusuiso, correct?” When I nodded he broke into a satisfied grin. “I live there, too. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” When I left the conversation at that, he didn’t hesitate to continue staring at my face.
“I see, I see,” he nodded. “So you’re the one, huh . . . ?” It seemed that things were making sense to him. I was still a little drunk, but his oddly familiar demeanor was creeping me out. Could it be that he was my long-lost big brother? But I hadn’t lost my big brother. I never had one to begin with.
When I cleared my bowl and stood up, the guy followed, walking alongside me as if it were the natural thing to do. Then he took out a cigar, lit it, and exhaled a cloud of smoke. When I increased my pace, he casually caught up without even appearing to rush—exactly the sort of wizardry you’d expect from a mountain hermit.
Just as I was thinking how annoying the whole situation was, he abruptly began to speak.
* * *
“They say time flies like an arrow, but the way the seasons repeat one after the other after the other is infuriating. I don’t know when heaven and earth began, but it can’t have been that long ago. It’s absolutely astounding to think that humans have multiplied so much in so short a time. And day after day, everyone is doing their best to make things happen. Human beings are so industrious. I really admire them. I’d be lying if I said they weren’t adorable. But no matter how adorable they are, there are so many that I don’t have time to shower them with my pity.
“Once autumn rolls around I have to go back to Izumo—and the train is not cheap. It used to be that we’d spend a night in heated debates to make our decisions, scrutinizing each case one by one, but these days we don’t have the luxury of taking our time like that. We just chuck all the cases we bring into a wooden box marked ‘inspection complete’—it’s so boring! No matter how much of our wisdom we pour into matchmaking, the good-for-nothing guys will miss the chances we put right under their noses, and the girls who capitalize on theirs will make their own matches with random other guys, so why should we break our backs over this stuff? It’s like trying to empty Lake Biwa with a ladle.
“With the exception of the Month with No Gods, I’m putting cases together, almost all year round. There are some slackers who just sit with a glass of wine in one hand, picking their noses, and decide by lottery, but I’m a serious guy—I couldn’t make matches for these adorable humans in such an irresponsible way! I get involved in spite of myself. I take a good hard look at them and fret as if their fates were my own. I practically rip my hair out trying to come up with suitable encounters for each and every one of them. It’s like I’m a marriage counselor! Is that really a job for a god? This is why I chain-smoke, why I’m losing my hair, why I eat too much castella cake—I love castella—why I need Chinese remedies for my digestion, why I don’t get enough sleep because my eyes pop open at the crack of dawn, why I’ve got a stress-induced jaw disorder. My doctor says I should reduce my stress levels, but how can I take it easy when a pile of people’s sons’ and daughters’ destinies rest on my shoulders?
“I’ve no doubt the other jerks are off taking a twenty-thousand-league sea voyage on a luxury passenger ship like the Queen Elizabeth 2, sipping champagne, girls in sexy bunny getups at their elbows, not a care in the world. They laugh at me like, ‘He’s hopeless. Always so hardheaded.’ I see you, you bastards! You’re not fit to be called gods! Year after year, why am I the only one who makes sure each red thread of destiny is tied? It’s completely understandable that I should wonder how it came to this, wouldn’t you say, my good sir?”
* * *
What was this absolute weirdo going on about?
“Who are you, even?” I asked, stopping on the dark street. We were right where Mikage-dori turns east off Shimogamo Hon-dori. In front of us, Tadasu no Mori was abuzz with nocturnal life, and inside the forest, the long, empty approach to Shimogamo Shrine stretched to the north. Sacred lanterns glowed orange deep within.
“A god, my good sir, I’m a god,” he said, as if it were nothing, and then raised an index finger. “I’m known as Kamotaketsunumi no Kami.”
“Huh?”
“Kamotaketsunomi mo Kamo—er, Kamotaketsunumi no Kami. Don’t make me say it more than once—it’s a tongue twister.” Then he gestured at the dark approach to Shimogamo Shrine. “You live here and you’ve never heard of me?”
I’d been to pray at Shimogamo Shrine, but I’d never heard of a god by that name. Kyoto has a lot of shrines with ancient origins, and Shimogamo Shrine is one of the most famous. It’s even designated as a World Heritage Site. This guy was rather lacking in persuasive talent if he expected me to believe he was a deity worshipped at a shrine so ancient it was impossible to imagine how far back its history stretched. He was either a mountain hermit or one of those freeloader binbogami. Definitely not Shimogamo deity caliber.
“You don’t believe me,” he groaned.
I shook my head.
“How lamentable!” he said, not appearing to be lamenting anything one bit. He was sending puffs of pleasant-smelling cigar smoke out on the evening breeze. The buzzing sounds coming from the forest were eerie.
I started walking briskly away, leaving the mystical man and his tobacco behind. Nothing good would come of associating with someone like that.
“Now, now. Just one moment,” he called out to me. “I know everything about you. I know your parents’ names. I know you were a vaguely acidic-smelling baby because you were always throwing up. I know what your nickname was in elementary school, what happened at that one school festival in middle school, about your blush of a first crush in high school . . . which of course, ended badly. I know how aroused—or should I say ‘astonished’—you were when you saw your first ‘adult video,’ how you had to spend an extra year studying to get into college, and how lazy and shameless you’ve been since you managed it . . .”
“Lies.”
“Nope. I know it all,” he nodded with confidence. “For example, I know that you hijacked a screening to show a film exposing the detestable behavior of one Jogasaki and had no choice but to voluntarily withdraw from your film club. And I know what caused you to spend the past two years growing more and more perverse.”
“It’s Ozu’s fault,” I blurted without thinking, but he held up a hand to stop me.
“I acknowledge the fact that Ozu’s somewhat impure soul has influenced you, but he can’t be the only reason.”
The nonsense of the past two years flickered across the back of my mind like shadows cast by a revolving lantern. In holy Shimogamo Shrine’s forest of all places, the thorny talons of my memories clutched my delicate heart, and I had to suppress an ungentlemanly scream. Kamotaketsunumi no Kami looked on, amused, as I writhed in my private mental agony.
“Mind your own business,” I said. “It has nothing to do with you.”
But he shook his head. “Take a look at this.”
He took a bundle of dirty papers out from inside his yukata and moved closer to the fluorescent light shining on a nearby neighborhood bulletin board. When he motioned to me, I entered the glow as if drawn by some force of attraction.
In his hands was a thick accounting ledger, worm-eaten in spots; it sent up clouds of dust that seemed a hundred years old as he flipped through it. He was licking his finger to turn the pages, so he must have been eating quite a bit of dirt.
“Here it is.” He pointed at a place near the end of the ledger. The grimy gray page had a woman’s name, my name, and Ozu’s written on it. The calligraphy was so terribly dignified it felt almost as if I’d been made a deity myself.
“In the fall, we gods gather in Izumo to match up men and women. You’ve probably heard of that. This year I have hundreds of cases, and this is one of them. You know what that means, right?”
“No.”
“You don’t? You’re stupider than you look! It means I’m trying to decide who to pair up this girl you know—Akashi—with,” the god said. “In other words, it’s gonna be either you or Ozu.”
Tadasu no Mori clamored and swayed in the night.
* * *
The next day I woke up after noon and knelt on my molding futon. Remembering what an idiot I’d been the previous night, I blushed despite being alone.
A god of Shimogamo Shrine had appeared at the Neko Ramen stand. Not only that, but he lived on the second floor of my building. Not only that, but he was going to set up a match between me and Akashi. One can only be so delusional. Allowing my loneliness to weaken my willpower to the point where I fantasize so freely is shameless behavior unbecoming of a gentleman.
But actually, meeting that god felt perfectly normal. He didn’t perform any miracles; no lightning flashed. There were no foxes, crows, or other divine animal messengers deferentially attending him. He just happened to sit next to me at a ramen stand. A god. It was so unconvincing that it actually ended up pretty convincing; but does that sound unconvincing?
It would be easy enough to ascertain the truth of the matter. I could just go to the second floor and see him. But if he opened the door and said, “And who might you be?” what would I say? Or how pitiful would it be if he opened the door and said, “Ha! Gotcha!”? My life would be one of bleak self-hatred from there on out.
“Once you’ve made your decision, come and see me. I’m in the far room on the second floor. But I’d like a reply within three days. I’m a busy guy,” the peculiar god had said.
Though I was dejected from my days of endless laps between my room and school, it was beneath me to get all flustered over this. I prayed, “Namu-namu, namu-namu,” to suppress the wild ideas that threatened to expand like a balloon and float into the May sky.
Oh, but he said—this guy calling himself a god—that he was going to go all the way to Izumo to do the matchmaking. That couldn’t be true.
I fished a dictionary out of my bookcase.
* * *
Plenty of people know that during the tenth month of the old calendar, known as the Month with No Gods, the country’s eight million gods leave their respective territories and gather in Izumo. Even I know that.
I’m not going to get into who all these eight million gods are, but eight million is a fifteenth of the current population of Japan. With that many gods, there’s bound to be some oddballs mixed in, just like how even a university that boasts of its brilliant students is bound to have a handful who are quite obviously idiots.
I had to wonder, What in the world do all these gods talk about once they’ve gone all the way to Izumo? How to stop climate change? The globalization of the economy? It’s a pretty big deal for all the gods scattered all around the country to go out of their way to gather and debate for a whole month, so you’d think they’d be exchanging heated arguments on some pretty serious topics. There’s no way they’d be throwing a hot pot party among friends, having a gay old time telling dirty jokes. That would make them no different from idiot college students.
That day, when I looked it up in the dictionary in my room, my mind was blown.
It said that by the end of the eight million gods’ unrestrained disputation, couples are decided. The gods from all over Japan gather under one roof just to tie or untie red threads of destiny. That fishy god at the ramen stand had been telling the truth.
I trembled with rage at the various deities.
Didn’t they have anything better to do?
* * *
To clear my head, I applied myself to my studies.
But as I faced my textbooks, it started to feel like it was too little, too late to make up for the two years I had wasted.Being that pitiful is against my aesthetic, so I gracefully gave up on studying. I have pretty high confidence when it comes to this sort of grace. In other words, I’m a gentleman.
And so, I had no choice but to rely on Ozu for the paper I had to turn in. There was a secret organization called the Printing Office through which you could get a paper written for you by placing an order. ...
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
