Note: This book is available only as an ebook on US Amazon and via Apple Books.
Balsa was a wanderer and warrior for hire. Then she rescued a boy flung into a raging river — and at that moment, her destiny changed. Now Balsa must protect the boy — the Prince Chagum — on his quest to deliver the great egg of the water spirit to its source in the sea. As they travel across the land of Yogo and discover the truth about the spirit, they find themselves hunted by two deadly enemies: the egg-eating monster Rarunga . . . and the prince’s own father.
Excerpt, Chapter 1
As the royal procession reached the Yamakage Bridge, Balsa’s destiny took an unexpected turn.
She was crossing the commoners’ bridge downstream, the Aoyumi River visible through gaps between the planks. Never a pleasant sight, today it was particularly terrifying — swollen after the long autumn rains, its muddy brown waters topped with churning white foam. The rickety bridge swayed precariously in the wind.
Balsa, however, stepped forward without hesitation. Her long, weather-beaten hair was tied at the nape of her neck, and her face, unadorned by makeup, was tanned and beginning to show fine wrinkles. She carried a short spear over her shoulder with a cloth sack dangling from the end; her compact body was lithe and firmly muscled under her threadbare traveling cloak. Anyone versed in the martial arts would recognize her immediately as a formidable opponent. But it was her eyes that truly arrested an observer: darkest black, startlingly intense, they made it clear that she could not be easily manipulated.
These eyes now glanced upstream as she strode briskly across the bridge. Maple leaves had dyed the towering mountain slopes crimson. In the distance she could see an ox-drawn carriage, its gold fastenings gleaming in the sunset as it moved across the Yamakage Bridge — which, Balsa knew, was reserved solely for the royal family. Twenty attendants accompanied the carriage, and the red flag preceding it indicated the rank of its occupant.
The Second Prince. He must be returning to the capital from the royal villa in the mountains, Balsa thought. She paused to watch, captivated by the beauty of that moment, suspended in time like a hanging scroll; she knew that at this distance, failure to prostrate herself could not be considered a crime. Balsa was not native to this country, and for a personal and unforgettable reason, she had very little respect for rules of any kind.
In the next instant, however, the tranquil scene was shattered as the ox hurled off the servant who grasped its halter. Rearing and charging wildly, it rushed forward and back, kicking its hooves and tossing its horns. The attendants were powerless to stop it; the animal seemed to have gone berserk. Balsa watched as the carriage toppled slowly to its side.
And then a small figure in red was flung out of the carriage, arms and legs flailing as he plummeted toward the river below.
By the time the water swallowed him, Balsa had already dropped her belongings, shrugged off her cloak, clipped the metal clasp of a rope to the end of her spear, and sent the shaft speeding toward the riverbank. It flew straight and true, sinking deep into the ground between two rocks. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed three or four servants leaping after the prince as she grasped the rope firmly in her fist and dived into the murky water below.
The shock as she hit the surface was like being slammed into a stone floor—she almost lost consciousness. Buffeted by the rushing torrent, she hauled on the rope and climbed onto the nearest rock. She pushed wet strands of hair from her face and stared intently at the water until she caught sight of something small and red bobbing down the river. A hand fluttered on the surface, sank, then fluttered again.
Let him have fainted. Please let him have fainted, she prayed. Getting her bearings, she leapt back into the swirling river and swam hard against the flow toward the spot where her path would cross that of the prince. The freezing water cut like a knife as it gurgled in her ears. She could just barely see the red of the prince’s robe in the dark current, and she felt the cloth slip through the fingers of her outstretched hand.
Balsa swore in frustration, but in that instant, something strange happened. For a second — no more than the time it took to blink — she felt herself buoyed up. The raging river was suddenly stilled, all sound faded away; everything came to a halt within a clear blue space that seemed to stretch on forever. The prince alone stood out sharp and distinct. Without understanding what was happening, Balsa reached out to grasp his robe.
As soon has her hand closed on the material, the force of the water hit her so strongly she thought it would wrench her arm off — as if that strange moment in time had been no more than a dream. With all her might, she pulled the prince to her and hooked his belt onto the metal clip attached to the other end of the rope. Gripping the rope in one numb hand, she swam back to the bank and, on the verge of collapse, hauled the prince ashore.
He looked only eleven or twelve years old, his childish face as white as a sheet. Fortunately, he had fainted from the shock of the fall, just as Balsa had hoped, and his stomach was not bloated with water. She worked to revive him until he coughed and began breathing again.
Well, thank goodness for that, she sighed inwardly.
Little did she know that this was only the beginning.
Chapter II
Draining the last drop of wine from her cup, Balsa breathed a contented sigh. What a surprise it had been to be invited to Ninomiya Palace! True, she had save the prince’s life, but as a foreigner, she was of even lower rank than a commoner: The most she had expected was a sum of money. Indeed, when she left the prince with his courtiers on the riverbank earlier that day, an attendant had asked where she was lodging so he could bring her a reward. But the messenger who appeared at the inn said that the prince’s mother, the Second Queen, wished to entertain her at the palace first.
The Mikado, the divine ruler of New Yogo, had three wives. The one who bore him his first son was known as the First Queen; the one who bore his second son, the Second Queen. Balsa had heard that there were no further heirs to the throne beyond the Second Prince, as the Third Queen had borne no sons. Such tales, however, concerned people of a different sphere than hers, and she knew no more.
Balsa was not so ignorant of the world that the royal invitation made her vain: she knew that royalty only treat commoners kindly when they want something in return. While she was fully aware that the summons meant trouble, she could hardly refuse it without appearing rude — and that would only mean even worse trouble. She had had no choice but to come…..
About the Author: Nahoko Uehashi is a writer of fantasy titles, whose books have sold more than a million copies in her native Japan. She has won numerous awards, including the 2014 Hans Christian Andersen Award, which she received for her contribution to children’s literature throughout her life. She has a Ph.D. in cultural anthropology and has studied indigenous peoples in Australia. She lives near Tokyo, Japan.
About the Translator: Cathy Hirano lives in Shikoku, Japan and has translated a variety of books including best-selling authors Marie Kondo and Nahoko Uehashi.
“The Isle of South Kamui and Other stories, by Kyotaro Nishimura is a collection of short stories written before he became famous. The stories are fascinating psychological explorations of the criminal mind and what drives people to crime.”—Ginny Tapley Takemori
Excerpt:
The sun was shining, but there was a strong southwesterly breeze and the sea was choppy and dotted with white surf. The K Maru, a small ship under two hundred tons, was unable to land at South Kamui. We were thus compelled to cast anchor off the coast, and a fishing boat from the island came to collect us.
There were just two passengers bound for the island, myself and a middle-aged traveling salesman with an enormous bundle. A strapping, suntanned youth naked to the waist was at the helm of the fishing boat, which creaked ominously as we rode the waves. Though the island was there before our eyes we did not appear to draw any closer to it. The boat was permeated with the stench of fish and I clung to the side fighting off an urge to throw up, but the salesman looked utterly unperturbed and did his best to strike up a conversation with me. “This is my third visit to South Kamui, you know. There is nothing here but fresh air and clean sea, and also the women are wonderfully uninhibited. Can’t complain about the service. City folks these days talk about free sex and whatnot, but here on this island they’ve been practicing something of the sort since way back, and they take especially good care of visitors. A veritable ‘isle of women’ you might say.”
His “nudge nudge, wink wink” type of talk struck me as peculiarly insinuating and offensive. I said nothing, so he probed further: “Are you here on vacation? Getting away from it all is all the rage these days.” He was peering at me with his flushed face pressed close to mine. His breath stank of alcohol. I recalled he had been sipping steadily from a whiskey bottle on board the K Maru.
“For work,” I answered shortly, clutching my chest. I still felt nauseous, but perhaps I could somehow reach the shore without vomiting.
“Work, huh? No kidding!” The salesman laughed in such a way that could equally imply admiration or contempt.
“I’m a doctor,” I said, attempting to deflect his gaze. I was annoyed at being considered on a par with the likes of the salesman. “It is most inconvenient for the Island to be without medical assistance, so I decided to come.”
“You’re a doctor? Oh gosh, I am sorry.” He made a show of striking his head in contrition. It was this sort of gesture typical of a slick salesman, and I began to dislike him even more. No doubt the products he was peddling were fakes. I scowled disapprovingly, but the salesman continued in his overly familiar and clumsy manner to praise me, “I’m really impressed that a young doctor like you would come to such a far-flung island.”
I gave a wry smile despite myself. Just a few days earlier I had been similarly commended for going to South Kamui, albeit in rather more elegant language. It was on the occasion of the farewell party held in my honor. My aging professor, overcome with emotion, had said, “It is truly splendid that a young doctor like yourself should demonstrate the spirit of self-sacrifice by going to such a remote island.” I listened humbly, but truth be told, my reasons for going to South Kamui were not as lofty as he suggested.
I simply wanted to get away from Tokyo because I had gotten into trouble over a woman. What was more, the woman was associated with some yakuza who had threatened to me, so things were getting particularly ugly. My destination, therefore, was not a primary consideration. I would have preferred to go abroad, to somewhere like France or Germany, but I had no money and was not confident of being able to make a living once I got there. It was then that I heard that South Kamui needed a doctor. The salary was good, so I applied. I had vaguely imagined from its name that South Kamui must be an island in the arc of the Kamui Archipelago stretching off the southern coast of Kyushu toward Okinawa. It would not be so bad to live for a while gazing at the blue sea of the coral reef, I thought, but when I looked again at the map after signing the contract, I was shocked. However hard I searched the Kamui Archipelago from north to south, I could not find any Island by the name of South Kamui. Nor should I have done. It did actually belong to the archipelago, but was stranded alone in the ocean some 250 km to the south east, as if ostracized by the other islands. Of course there were no flights there, and the ferry from the main island of Kamui apparently took more than 10 hours. “Being so isolated and inaccessible, the manners and customs remain little changed from olden times. The living is meager,” read the extremely brief entry in the guidebook. It would probably be a folklorist’s dream, but for me it felt like being exiled to a place beyond the reach of civilization. I could hardly back out now having already signed the contract, but I was thinking of finding some pretext to return to Tokyo before the two years of the contract were up.
And quite frankly, rocking in a boat stinking of fish with the red-faced middle aged salesman jabbering away at me, I was already beginning to regret ever having come to this desolate southern island.
The fishing boat finally drew close to the island.
The “port” was actually a small inlet. The seabed was spread with coral, over wich the surface of the water was turned into white foam by the incoming tide. We were splashed by spray, but the water was warm. It was the end of April and the days were still chilly in Tokyo, but here it was already summer.
There was a long, narrow concrete wharf where twenty or so islanders had turned out to welcome me. I saw the uniformed figure of a resident police officer, but there were just four men in all and the rest were women. The women wore white singlets with indigo splash-patterned pantaloons, their faces covered with straw hats and cotton towels to protect them from the strong rays of the sun.
“Some welcome party!” the salesman smirked, looking at me. I didn’t answer. The feeling of nausea had not yet dissipated, and besides, the women were so sunburned that I could not tell their ages. I did not find them the remotest bit attractive.
The young man at the helm shouted something loudly at the wharf. His accent was so strong I failed to catch his words, but from the way the women laughed shrilly I thought he must’ve been teasing them.
For our five of the women caught the end of the rope he threw them and pulled the fishing boat alongside the wharf. They held the ropes steady, but jumping up from the rocking boat to the wharf a step higher was surprisingly difficult. The salesman shouldered his large bundle and leaped nimbly up, but I mistook my timing and ended up stumbling awkwardly on the wharf. Seeing this, the women let out a bright peel of laughter that was nevertheless somehow tinged with cruelty.
The young officer hastily took my hand and helped me to my feet.
The women now started hauling the fishing boat ashore. They seemed to enjoy the task. As they pulled on the ropes, they sang a song. I had heard the rhythmical cries of the fisherwomen along the Chiba coast as they hauled in the seines, but compared with their rough voices, the singing of these women was extremely slow and leisurely. I could not understand the words. The one thing I did understand, however, was that every time the women sang “maguhai —” the young fisherman chuckled. From this I surmised that in the island dialect the word maguhai had something or other to do with sex. I remembered the salesman telling me the women here were uninhibited.
The salesman quickly disappeared off somewhere, but for me there started a long drawn-out speech of welcome. A small elderly man, apparently the mayor, bowed low before me and by way of greeting said extremely politely, “We on this remote island welcome you who have done us the favor of coming from Yamato. We have little here, but we exhort you to please enjoy your stay at your leisure.” I had the feeling that I was listening to someone from the ancient Imperial Court. At first I did not understand what he meant by “Yamato,” but after it had cropped up a few times I realized that it appeared to refer to the Japanese mainland. It seems that the elderly residents of this island still use this antiquated name to refer to Japan. In Tokyo, time raced by at an insane pace, but here it probably stood still.
The plump headmaster of the island’s primary school gave me an equally formal greeting. One of the remaining men, in late middle age, was the postmaster, and his welcome speech appeared to demean his own island. “We are very grateful to you for coming to such a place.” These three men, four including the police officer, seemed to be the most important, and the fact that all of the island’s dignitaries turned out to greet me was evidence of the highest honor. I should perhaps have been thankful to them, but I was fed up with this long drawn out welcome on the wharf. It amounted to a formal ceremony, with the men appearing to vie with each other to give the longest, most courteous speech. It was just the end of April, but it was already unbearably hot. There was no such thing as spring here, and the season was apparently called “young summer,” which might sound very pretty, but the sun was beating down and the sweat poured from my armpits.
After about thirty minutes, their speeches finally came to an end and I was shown around the Village. The women had finished hauling up the fishing boat, and now trooped after us chattering among themselves in shrill voices. I could not understand their dialect, but I got the impression they were somehow sizing me up. They frequently raised their voices in laughter. I was beginning to get annoyed. Was I going to provide an endless topic of gossip for them?
Walking around the village, I was struck by its destitute appearance. I had been aware that it was an impoverished island with a population of just 346, but I had not expected it to be this bad. Even compared to the main island of Kamui, the poverty here seemed in another league altogether. All the houses had old-style straw thatched roofs, and the dry whitish road sounded hollow underfoot. There were no cars to be seen, but instead oxcarts rolled slowly by. The children went around barefoot. In contrast with the indigence of the settlement, the sky was boundlessly clear, and the greenery was deep and rich with enormous sago palms, papayas, and screw pines. Indeed, I got the impression that the vegetation was so lush that the Islanders seemed cowed before it.
I was taken to the infirmary on the edge of the village. The sign reading “South Kamui Clinic” was brand-new, but the building itself was a musty old wooden structure. Nevertheless, its roof of galvanized sheet iron seem to confer upon it an air of modernity that stood out amongst all the attached dwellings. When I went inside, I realized the medical equipment was far from sufficient. It was even less well-equipped than a small private surgery. The mayor apologized profusely for the lack of budget. I told him that I would manage despite the straightened circumstances, whereupon he finally seemed to relax and his deeply wrinkled face broke into a smile.
The women were still there, lined up outside the window looking in at me. The faces of several small children were also peeping in. I commented with an ironic smile that I felt like a caged animal. Just then, a piercing siren rang out and instantly the row of faces outside the window disappeared.
“What on earth is that?” I demanded in shock.
“Today,” beamed the mayor, “is the one day in the calendar when the ban is lifted,”
“The ban?” I echoed.
This time it was the young officer who explained briskly, “There is a colony here on the island, of the seabird called the Streaked Shearwater. It’s a protected species, but on this day alone they are allowed to harvest them. It’s quite exciting to watch. Would you like to accompany me? Your welcome party will be held after that.”
The mayor and headmaster both urged me to go as well. There was no entertainment to speak up on the island, and today was a major event for which the entire village turned out. It had even been made a special holiday. What with the heat in the lengthy speeches on the wharf, I was feeling fed up and could not summon any enthusiasm, but when pressed further I grudgingly hauled myself to my feet.
Mount Kamui Rose almost two hundred meters above sea level, and the Streaked Shearwaters dug their meter-deep nesting boroughs on its southern slope. These were the cause of withered tree roots and landslides, which was why this annual cull was permitted. The birds were unable to rise into the air straight from the ground, and had to wobble down the slope to get the momentum to take off. With much hands gesturing, the officer explained such background details as we climb to the mountain pass. When speaking to me, he — and indeed all the Islanders — used standard Japanese, but the moment they started talking amongst themselves, they spoke in a dialect that I could not understand. They made such a clear distinction that I was left feeling more bewildered than impressed. I could not tell whether they were trying to put me at ease, or whether they were merely underlining the fact that I was an outsider.
Fan palms and date palms grew luxuriantly on either side of the steep path. I was amused by the wild king banana trees which, contrary to its grandiose name, bore fruit that was no bigger than my pinkie. Apparently it didn’t taste of much either.
Just before the summit, I turned to see a panorama of the entire Island. That was how small it was. The village was huddled in its center. There were no rice paddies due to the fact that the island relied exclusively on rainwater, and possibly also due to the calcareous soil, and I could see only fields of sugarcane and sweet potatoes.
But the ocean surrounding the island was stunning. The muddy brown sea of Tokyo Bay aside, I had always thought that the true color of the ocean was blue, but the expansive sea before my eyes now was not so much blue as a deep green. Maybe this was what was meant by emerald green. Capping the northern side of the island, the coral reef stretched in a line marked by white surf. Even the breeze blowing up off the ocean seemed as if it was dyed green.
I lit up a cigarette. For no particular reason I recalled my trip to Hong Kong. After my posting to South Kamui had been confirmed, a group of friends from medical school had sent me off to enjoy a recreational break there before starting my period of exile. In hindsight, as Hong Kong was also an island, my friends have probably intended it in jest. But beyond that there was no comparison. In Hong Kong there was everything; here there was nothing. No cinema or bar, much less a bowling alley. They did not even appear to have television. For someone like me, accustomed to seeing a forest of television antennas, this antenna-free landscape was too weird for words.
The only thing going for this Island was its natural beauty. But I was bound to grow weary of this before long. I thought of the king bananas I had seen on the way. I couldn’t help feeling that the lack of balance displayed by the fruit was symbolic of the island as a whole — of the contrast between its excessive natural beauty and its impoverished way of life…..
About the Author: Kyōtarō Nishimura (西村 京太郎) was born in Tokyo in 1930 and is an award-winning author whose work includes mysteries, spy novels, parodies and historical novels. He received the Edogawa Rampo Prize in 1965 for “Tenshi no kizuato” (A Scar of an Angel) and the Japan Mystery Writers’ Association Prize in 1981 for “Shuchakueki satsujin jiken” (Murder at the Terminal Station). Nishimura is best known for his “train series” mysteries, most of which feature his characters, police detectives Shozo Totsugawa, Sadao Kamei and Tokitaka Honda.
Ginny Tapley Takemori lives in rural Japan and has translated fiction by more than a dozen early modern and contemporary Japanese writers, from bestsellers Ryu Murakami and Kyotaro Nishimura to literary greats Izumi Kyoka and Okamoto Kido. Her most recent book publications include Miyuki Miyabe’s five-volume Puppet Master and Tomiko Inui’s The Secret of the Blue Glass, shortlisted for the Marsh Award, and her short fiction translations have appeared in Granta, Freeman’s, Words Without Borders, and a number of anthologies. Her translation of Sayaka Murata’s Akutagawa Prize-winning novel Convenience Store Woman was published in June 2018 to great acclaim. Her translation of Kyoko Nakajima’s The Little House is forthcoming in 2019. Read the BOA interview: Ginny Tapley Takemori on Translating Convenience Store Woman.
“Puppet Master, by Miyuki Miyabe, is a translation of Mohohan and is her absolute masterpiece.” —Ginny Tapley Takemori
Note: This book is sold only as an ebook and only in Japan.
Excerpt, from Chapter 1
September 12, 1996
Even after it was all over, Shinichi Tsukuda could remember in precise detail everything he’d done that morning: what he’d been thinking, how he’d been feeling when he woke up, what he’d seen on his regular morning walk, who he’d passed, the flowers in bloom in the park.
Over the last year he’d gotten into the habit of committing the minutest detail to memory. He would memorize every moment of every day as if taking photographs, storing away every word of every conversation, every particular of every scene around him—things so fragile they could easily be destroyed or taken from him at anytime, so it was necessary to have a good grasp of them.
That was why that morning he remembered hearing the clatter of the mailbox — a bit later than usual, he’d thought — as he was coming down stairs from his room. Looking out of the window at the turn in the staircase, he caught sight of the chubby newspaper delivery man in a gray T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up passing by on his scooter. Printed on the back of his shirt was the Urawa Reds team logo and mascot.
As Shinichi unlocked the front door and went outside, Rocky started barking in the front yard, his chain jingling in his excitement. The dog strained on the chain as far as it would let him, the joy showing in every part of his body as he jumped up in greeting. Shinichi noticed a bare patch on Rocky’s belly where the skin was showing through the fur, and he wondered if he’d hurt himself. He tried to hold him to get a better look, but Rocky was jumping around in his eagerness to go for a walk, making it impossible. Shinichi gave up and unclipped Rocky’s chain from the post in the corner of the yard, thinking that when they got back from the walk he’d show it to Unclie Yoshiyuki and maybe take Rocky to the vet. He clearly remembered that the chain was still wet from the rain during the night, and had felt cold and heavy in his hand.
Rocky had come to live in the Ishii household some six months before Shinichi and was a bundle of energy, always getting up to mischief and wanting to play. He was a cuddly bear of a dog — a handsome collie, although apparently not a purebred. Upon closer inspection, Shinichi could see that his nose was indeed slightly shorter than a regular collie’s, and he was on the small side, but that just made him all the more lovable.
It was almost 10 months since Shinichi had come to live with the Ishiis, and now it was his job to take Rocky out for a walk every morning and evening. It turned out that on that Aunt Yoshie and Uncle Yoshiyuki had never really been all that keen on dogs, and taking him for walks had been a chore. Shinichi even sometimes had the feeling that Aunt Yoshie was a little afraid of big dogs like Rocky. So when Rocky had taken a liking to Shinichi and Shinichi in turn had enjoyed looking after the dog, they had told him what a big help that was.
So why had they taken Rocky on in the first place? If it was so much trouble to look after a dog, why had they taken one in? Shinichi has been on the verge of asking this question many times, but had always stopped himself. They would probably tell him, but he could easily imagine it making things awkward between them. Well, you see, we felt sorry for that poor dog so… they would say. It was true; they were incapable of ignoring anything or anyone in a pitiful situation. And Shinichi would nod and say, I see, poor Rocky had had nowhere else to go. And would think to himself, Same as me. And he would be able to tell from their faces that they knew that was what he was thinking. And that he knew that they knew. And they would all be pretending they didn’t know.
Shinichi unclipped the chain from Rocky’s collar and replaced it with the leather leash used for going on walks. Rocky pulled excitedly as they went out onto the street. Even though they had a regular route, the dog always seemed to want to go off in different directions. He liked going off the asphalt, too—the earth must’ve felt good under his paws. Shinichi would often let him choose which way to go, but not that morning. After last night’s rain there were puddles everywhere, so he decided to stick to the paved roads along the usual route.
They went down a narrow alley and came out on Meiji Dori. It was still early so there were wasn’t much traffic, but that meant the cars were going faster. Rocky barked in protest at a taxi that drove past too close. They headed west along Meiji Dori and crossed over at the Shirahige-bashi East crossing, and continued along to Okawa Park. The full days were getting shorter, and the morning sun was only just now rising behind them, it’s reflection glittering in the windows of the high-rise condos on their right.
Rocky wanted to press on, but Shinichi make him stop, turning around to watch the rising sun. Those who had known him in the old days would be astonished to hear that he now reverently watched the sun rise every morning. Like most other high-school students, he’d always been more of a night owl and had been hopeless at getting up at a set time every morning. He always grumbled that morning classes shouldn’t start until at least ten o’clock or so.
That had all changed now. After the Ishiis had taken him in, he’d started getting up early and watching the sunrise every morning of his own accord. He’d asked himself why that was, but he still hadn’t found a clear answer — a coherent, logical one, anyway. It was just a gut feeling. He wanted to be sure — sure that another day had started; that every day, every morning, he was alive. Or rather, that he had survived yesterday, and was here to greet the new day, too. That his life hadn’t ended yet. He had no idea what each day had in store for him, but for the moment yesterday had passed, and he had come through it intact.
If he didn’t follow this morning ritual, the feeling of being alive didn’t well up in him. It was like an explorer walking through the unchanging landscape of a huge desert — other then turning around to check his own footprints, there was no way to gauge his progress. Even so, there were times when Shinichi welcomed the morning sun only to wonder whether he hadn’t in fact already died, and the sun was simply coming and going over his dead body. At these times he caved into a feeling of emptiness.
As he stood there looking at the sun through narrowed her eyes, at his side Rocky let out a bark. Shinichi turned around to see a woman in jogging wear running toward them from the park. “Good morning!” she called out. Shinichi give only a slight nod in return; depending on how you looked at it, it might or might not be taken as a greeting. “Hi, Rocky!” Rocky wagged his tail and jumped up at her. The woman smiled. “Glad the rain stopped,” she said as she ran past, her ponytail swinging in rhythm with her step.
Shinichi saw her most mornings. He didn’t know her name or where she was from or what sort of person she was. She must’ve been in her thirties, he guessed. She probably lived in this neighborhood, but she looked like a pretty good runner so she might have come from farther away. She didn’t know Shinichi’s name either, and he never told her Rocky’s name, so she must have overheard it. However friendly she was to him, Shinichi never did more then nod in response. But still she always said hello. And so it was, every morning.
“Rocky, let’s go!” Immediately Rocky jumped up joyfully and set off at a run, his feet steadily pounding the street, his ears laid flat and his nose stretched up before him. Shinichi held onto the taut leash and ran after him.
At the gate to the park he stopped briefly and made Rocky ease up his pace before going in. The long narrow space beside the river had been planted with trees and flowerbeds, and had a paved promenade running through it. It was perfect for strolling and you could always see plenty of people with dogs here. Some he saw every day, but he didn’t have the least desire to talk with them, and they perhaps sensed this, for nobody except the jogger ever called out a friendly greeting to him, to his relief.
The promenade formed a large S, and the western side of the park bordered the Sumida River. Climbing the steps to the top of the embankment you could look out across the blue-black water of the river to the Asakusa District on the opposite side. Line 6 of the Metropolitan Expressway running directly overhead felt somewhat oppressive, but even so Shinichi liked the view from here. He had never lived by a river before coming to the Ishiis, so the experience was still new for him.
He and Rocky ran along the embankment, the river on their right. He could feel the chill of autumn in the breeze that brushed his cheeks, fluttered the sleeves of his faded shirt, and ruffled the long hair on Rocky’s back. The sound of an engine came from upstream, and as a dredger drew level with him Rocky stood stock-still and wagged his tail barking. When the water-buses passed, people standing on the deck would wave at Rocky, who seemed to enjoy the attention. But there were no friendly waving passengers aboard the dredger, only a faint whiff of sludge that lingered and its wake as it plowed on downstream.
“There aren’t any people on that boat, Rocky!” Shinichi laughed, and stroked the dog’s head. Rocky licked his hand, his tongue rough and warm.
They ran along the embankment path for a while, then went back down the steps to the promenade. They had just passed a full bed of cosmos flowers bobbing on their slender stems and were heading for the exit when they heard a dog ahead of them barking frantically. It was hidden from their view by some shrubs, but it sounded fired up, as if in fight mode. Rocky pricked up his ears and stiffened, readying himself to join in. Shinichi took hold of his collar to keep him from bolting, and kept on walking.
As they passed shrubbery, a Siberian husky came into view at the entrance to the promenade. It was in a frenzy, its owner desperately trying to calm it. Shinichi had seen her before. She was about the same age as him, perhaps a little older, and was tall and slim, with long legs and well-defined muscles. She didn’t look the feeble type, but it was taking all her strength to control her dog.
“King, stop it. What’s up? King!” She scolded loudly, pulling hard on the dog’s heavy leather leash, all her weight on her heels. But King carried on barking, and lunged forward pulling her along.
The focus of his attention was a park garbage can, one of those big ones with BURNABLE TRASH marked on the side. As semitransparent trash bag protruded from under its hinged lid.
“King, what’s wrong with you?” She was clearly spent, her forehead covered in beads of sweat, and as she looked around in search of help her eyes locked with Shinichi’s. “My dog’s gone nuts.”
Shinichi flinched. He didn’t want to strike up a conversation with a girl, especially one he didn’t know. The last thing he needed in his life right now was to get involved with anyone new.
“King, what are you making such a fuss about?” She was beginning to sound a bit scared, but the dog grew more excited and jumped up at the trashcan with its front paws. The lid rattled.
Rocky started barking too, as if led on by King. Shinichi tapped him on the head and told him to sit. The dog growled, but Shinichi rapped his head again and he flattened his ears and sat down. Holding tightly onto his collar, Shinichi pulled him off the path and quickly tied the leash to the fence around the shrubs.
King was now straddling the trashcan and sticking his nose in the gap below the lid, intent on ferreting out something inside it. “King! Stop that. Bad boy!” shouted the girl, her voice cracking. Shinichi could see what was happening but just couldn’t bring himself to go to her aid. He didn’t know what he could do to help anyway. He really didn’t want to get involved. It was better not to get involved—
Rocky had stayed quietly by the fence, but now, infected by King’s frenzy, he started barking again. Shinichi turned around to scold him, and at just that moment King at last overturned the trash. As the dog fell with the can, his leash slipped from the girl’s grasp, leaving him free to pounce on the contents. He dragged out the trash bag and tore into it with his teeth and claws. Out spilled fast-food leftovers and crushed paper cups…the stench of garbage.
“Ew, that stinks!” Upon losing her grip of kings leash, the girl had abruptly sat down. She wrinkled her nose. “What the heck is in there?” she said, turning to look at Shinichi. “Whatever it is, King’s going crazy over it.”
But Shinichi didn’t answer. He was looking at King. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the object that the dog had just pulled out of the trash. It was a brown paper bag. King bit the edge of it, then bit it again. The fetid smell grew stronger as the bag split. Shinichi grimaced as he watched King’s strong jaws pull something out into full view.
It was a human arm, severed at the elbow. The fingers were facing Shinichi. Pointing at him, is if beckoning him. As if pleading with him.
King’s owner screamed, the sharp sound cutting through the early-morning air. Rooted to the spot, Shinichi reflexively raised his hands and put them over his ears. It had only been a year ago. It’s happening again. Screams, and blood, and me just standing here stunned.
Unconsciously he began inching his way backward, unable to tear his gaze away from the dead arm and beckoning hand. The fingernails were painted a pale purple, the same color as the cosmos blooms in the flowerbeds…..
About the Author: Miyuki Miyabe (宮部みゆき) was born in Tokyo in 1960 and writes genre fiction. She has won the Yoshikawa Eiji Prize for New Writers and for Literature, the Shiba Ryōtarō Prize, the Yamamoto Shugoro Prize, and the Naoki Prize. Her work has been translated into over a dozen languages and has been adapted for film, television, manga, and video games.
Ginny Tapley Takemori lives in rural Japan and has translated fiction by more than a dozen early modern and contemporary Japanese writers, from bestsellers Ryu Murakami and Kyotaro Nishimura to literary greats Izumi Kyoka and Okamoto Kido. Her most recent book publications include Miyuki Miyabe’s five-volume Puppet Master and Tomiko Inui’s The Secret of the Blue Glass, shortlisted for the Marsh Award, and her short fiction translations have appeared in Granta, Freeman’s, Words Without Borders, and a number of anthologies. Her translation of Sayaka Murata’s Akutagawa Prize-winning novel Convenience Store Woman was published in June 2018 to great acclaim. Her translation of Kyoko Nakajima’s The Little House is forthcoming in 2019.
So many books are published each year about someone’s year abroad in Japan that it has fostered its own genre called the “My Year in Japan” novel. Basically, a Westerner spends a year here (Japan), returns to their home country, and writes a book about this “weird country” that proceeds to get picked up by a major publisher. Unfortunately, too many of these books slide into the perilous territory of over-generalization, cultural mistranslation and even self-righteousness. In some ways it’s inevitable: after all, how much can one know about a country in just one year?
If well done, however, this genre can be a real eye-opener and offer intriguing glimpses into a different culture with disparate values, and such books can prove to be an extremely worthwhile read.
But most My Year in Japan books fall into the former category, making shallow conclusions based on limited knowledge of the culture. Oft-times the author has followed a spouse here and thus lacks a support network (friends), a structure to fit into (a job) or anyone to guide them through the cultural maze (colleagues or a boss). Japan can quickly become an object of loathing, an impediment to their dreams, something hurled at them undeservedly.
Many would agree that such books risk misrepresenting the host culture. More often than not, unhappiness on the part of the author is blamed on the host country rather than the author’s own inability to adapt. Coming to Japan (a privilege in itself) inevitably forces us to confront things we never imagined: our own value systems and even the very definition of happiness.
The most successful books remain true to both the author’s time abroad and to Japan itself. I’d venture to say that the best nonfiction books of this type don’t center around the author as much as the complexities of the host nation. Here are just a few of the best books in My Year in Japan genre, penned by writers who spent a limited amount of time here.
In On the Bullet Train with Emily Brontë, Judith Pascoe fills her year in Japan with interviews and sleuthing to gauge the effect of English author Emily Brontë on Japanese culture. Her exploits delve into Japan’s eccentricity, absurdity and its flair for pastiche, while exposing the literary side of a country deep into anime and “boys love” manga.
Less introspective but equally satisfying is Florent Chavouet’s Manabeshima Island Japan, about his two months living on a small island in the Seto Inland Sea. Primarily an artist, Chavouet uses drawings more than words to convey the people and the inner secrets of a population of 250.
Bruce Feiler, in his book Learning to Bow, charts his year as a teacher in the JET Programme, introducing Japanese culture along the way.
For a more acerbic take on the good, the bad and the ugly of Japan, Will Ferguson’s Hitching Rides with Buddha offers a scrupulous view of the country, while never holding it to any preconceived standard. This brutally honest exposé traces Ferguson’s trip hitchhiking across the archipelago following the movement of the cherry blossoms from the southernmost point in Kyushu to the northernmost point in Hokkaido. But in fact, there isn’t a whole lot of sakura in the book -— it’s more about the compelling characters he meets and his unanticipated experiences. Even though his trip was only mere weeks (the length of blossom season), he had several years of living in Japan to draw upon, resulting in a sagacious portrayal of a complex country.
By pursuing a greater goal than themselves, these authors allow the culture to speak for itself. They’re not afraid to allow the country to simultaneously dazzle and befuddle them, whether they actually like or agree with certain aspects of it or not. They understand that to interpret a culture risks misinterpreting it.
The question is, then, why aren’t there more books like these? Why don’t publishers seek out more “qualified” writers to pen stories that give a clearer, more in-depth picture with candor? After all, Japan requires a higher-than-average social IQ. Anything less is a bull in a china shop. Why not leave it to the experts rather than the amateurs?
I asked a couple of publishers this question, and this is what I found out.
It turns out that the “My Year in Japan” genre is a fascinating one to armchair travelers, according to one publisher. The outsider, the fish out of water, the eternal struggle to fit in are enduring themes. At the same time, the armchair traveler yearns for worlds far removed from his own that are by nature inaccessible to him (because of jobs, family, distance — reality).
The second publisher went even further. “Most American readers don’t care about how Japan ‘really’ is,” said Peter Goodman of Stone Bridge Press. “American ‘Japan fans’ still respond to superficial allure: pop culture, singing toilets, crazy inventions and absurdly uniform levels of public politeness and behavior. Most readers don’t want to know what it’s really like. They will get bored and restless if you try to give them too much detail.”
In other words, they want beach reads.
I’d go yet further and say that many people don’t want to be challenged with the truth that what they learned growing up isn’t necessarily a universal right or belief. The person who comes to Japan for a year returns to their country. The long-term expat does not. The one-year resident parries the deeper questions of existence by returning to common ground.
In addition, the armchair traveler needs the reassurance that his country is where he belongs, and nowhere else. It’s not how well the author grasps the culture or country she is writing about, it’s more about the fact that she was brave enough to venture abroad at all.
And herein lies the gulf. Long-term expats, imbued with cultural acumen and a concern for accuracy, are survivors. They want to read about characters who persevere and overcome the inevitable hardships all ex-pats encounter. On the other hand, those whose suffering becomes so central to their being that they fail to rise to the challenge and embrace the complexities of the new culture, are unappealing. “Lifers,” the moniker for long-term ex-pats, have little sympathy for the spoiled child who can’t accept the way things are in a foreign country. Likewise, authors mired in admonitions of how they think things should be (inevitably, more like the country they come from), represent unwavering self-righteousness.
In addition, Western expats are in a sense traitors who have left behind countries made great by their forefathers who fought so hard to protect them.
At the end of Will Ferguson’s hitchhike across Japan, he comes to the end of his journey in Hokkaido both physically and metaphorically. He realizes that after so many years, he is finally ready to leave Japan. This is brilliant, because he does what everyone thinks he should do: go home to where he belongs.
This article previously appeared in The Japan Times on Sept. 23, 2018
A True Novel begins in New York in the 1960s, where we meet Taro, a relentlessly ambitious Japanese immigrant trying to make his fortune. Flashbacks and multilayered stories reveal his life: an impoverished upbringing as an orphan, his eventual rise to wealth and success—despite racial and class prejudice—and an obsession with a girl from an affluent family that has haunted him all his life. A True Novel then widens into an examination of Japan’s westernization and the emergence of a middle class.
The winner of Japan’s prestigious Yomiuri Literature Prize.
Emily Bronte‘s incomparable Wuthering Heights is, for many of us, one of our most cherished novels, with the character of Heathcliff being the ultimate romantic hero. It is a work that has bewitched us for almost 200 years. But Emily herself remains an enigmatic, even mysterious figure, often painted unfairly in a negative light. So Emily Bronte Reappraised conjures a new image of the great writer by looking at her afresh from the vantage point of the new millennium. It’s a biography with a twist, taking in the themes of her life and work – her feminism, her passion for the natural world – as well as the art she has inspired, and even the “fake news” stories about her. What we discover is that she was, in fact, a thoroughly modern woman. And now, in the 21st century, it’s time for the real Emily Bronte to please stand up.
While teaching in Japan, Judith Pascoe was fascinated to discover the popularity that Emily Brontë’s novel Wuthering Heights has enjoyed there. Nearly 100 years after its first formal introduction to the country, the novel continues to engage the imaginations of Japanese novelists, filmmakers, manga artists and others, resulting in numerous translations, adaptations, and dramatizations. On the Bullet Train with Emily Brontë is Pascoe’s lively account of her quest to discover why Japanese so emphatically embrace Wuthering Heights, including quite varied and surprising adaptations of the novel. At the same time, the book chronicles Pascoe’s experience as an adult student of Japanese. She contemplates the multiple Japanese translations of Brontë, as contrasted to the single (or non-existent) English translations of major Japanese writers. Carrying out a close reading of a distant country’s Wuthering Heights, Pascoe begins to see American literary culture as a small island on which readers are isolated from foreign literature.
The book is based on conversations with Juliet Winters Carpenter, Miyako Koshiro, Suzue Miuchi, Minae Mizumura, Tetsunori Ota, Hiromi Iwashita, Yoko Hanabusa, and Harumo Sanazaki.
The Bronte sisters Charlotte, Emily and Anne were successful poets and novelists in their own right; however, their careers began with several collaborative works of stories and poetry. They first wrote under male pseudonyms as they feared retribution by the male-dominated literary world if they published works under their own names. They attracted attention immediately, and soon after found success with works like Charlotte’s “Jane Eyre” and Emily’s “Wuthering Heights.”
This collection of poetry reveals the highly imaginative minds of these siblings, who grew up in the moors of Yorkshire and were greatly influenced by the deaths of their mother and two older sisters. Each sister displays a unique poetic voice and style, varying between passionate, melancholic, terse, melodic and symbolic. This is an excellent introduction to the siblings’ highly original and influential writing, as well as a wonderful addition to any Bronte enthusiast’s collection.”
In this episode of the Books on Asia Podcast, Amy talks with Dr. Judith Pascoe in her office on the campus of Florida State University while a Brontëesque storm rages outside their window. Pascoe discusses aspects of her book On the Bullet Train with Emily Brontë: Wuthering Heights in Japan, and even offers up some unique Japanese language learning tips.
You’ll find her book, as well as others discussed in the podcast in Issue 2 of the Books on Asia website.
Just for fun: Take a break and listen to a homage to “Wuthering Heights,” sung by British songstress Kate Bush from her debut album The Kick Inside. The song went on to become No. 1 on the U.K. music charts.
