To a Moat-Filling Friend (April 9–April 30)

April 9

To: Komatsuzaki Yūya

Thank you for your letter. I am glad that everyone back at the lab is doing well.

It’s good to hear that you are still living your unproductive college life to the fullest. I urge you to continue enjoying this unfruitful period of your life just as you are. Expectation breeds disappointment. If you are going to try to plant and harvest a fruitful crop on the barren wasteland of a college campus, you had best be prepared to risk your life. Sleep, sleep life away; you won’t get any judgment from me.

I am well, though the cold at this research station is nothing to sneeze at.

I received quite a shock when I debarked at the train station. The research station occupies a prime location right in front of the train station with a sweeping view of the sea, but there is nothing else there, not even a convenience store. In fact, to find the next closest human settlement you have to go some distance down the national highway which snakes along the coast. The platform is bereft of another soul to offer warmth as I stand there waiting for the last train. I once saw a shooting star and tried to make a wish on it for companionship, but by the time I had reached the third syllable the star had already gone. This place seems bereft of hopes and dreams. If ever you think your life is difficult, just think of me, toiling away at jellyfish research far from Kyoto. In fact, you ought to come to Noto as well for a taste of this solitude.

My advisor, Taniguchi, is an odd man. He’s all skin and bones with frizzy hair, and always has on a windbreaker like the bad guy in an old detective serial. Come Friday night he can always be found in a corner of the lab, plucking at a mandolin and singing a song of his own invention in a reedy falsetto. His drink of choice is a cola with a coelenterate of undetermined origin floating in it; he’ll often take a sip, his eyes brimming with tears, and ask me what I think of his songs, which more often than not have to do with jilted women. That foul beverage is, by his telling, supposed to enhance virility. Why anyone would bother to enhance their virility on this forlorn stretch of seashore escapes me.

How can I ever express my gratitude to the professor who dispatched me here?

I am renting an apartment in a town called Nanao. It lies at the base of the Noto Peninsula, about 30 minutes by train from the research station. Near my apartment are a museum and a high school. Yesterday being a Saturday, I took a walk around the neighbourhood. I hear that there is a shopping street and a large park across the tracks, so I will have to visit some time. But this being my first time living in a new town, it’s hard not to feel a little uneasy.

I spent all day today cooped up in my apartment writing letters. This past week I have hardly said a word at the research station. The only one who talks to me is Taniguchi, and half of our conversations involve him berating me. In between rounds of reprimands, he spends his time observing jellyfish and enhancing his virility with his mysterious concoctions.

How I miss living in Kyoto. “I fear that Kyoto may crumble without me,” I confessed to my sister when I was packing my bags. “Worry about yourself first,” she chided me. For a high schooler, she has a nasty habit of often being right. She will need to fix that if she ever hopes to be happy.

I appreciate you coming to Kyoto Station to see me off in the pouring rain. Somewhere along the western shore of Lake Biwa as the Thunderbird express headed north, the rain let up to a drizzle, and a beautiful rainbow appeared above the mountains that link all the way down to Mt. Eizan. On a dirt path between withered rice fields I spotted a boy being pulled along by who I assume was his mother. To my surprise, as I observed them the boy let a red balloon with something tied to it float away into the sky. In another moment the whole scene was gone as the train whipped by, but there is no doubt that this scene, the rainbow and the red balloon, was an auspicious portent of the glorious future that awaits me.

I intend to take advantage of this opportunity to polish my skills in writing letters. I shall set to paper the warm missives that are graven upon my soul, spread cheer to my correspondents, and become renowned as a master of letter-writing. And one day, I will master the art of making any woman swoon for me with a single letter, and conquer the world. Everyone will be happy, and I will be happy too. Hurrah for letters.

Please continue to write. If ever you are in need of advice you have only to ask.

Yours in haste,

Morita Ichirō

April 15

To: Young Komatsuzaki

Thank you for your account of the cherry blossom picnic. A barbecue on the banks of the Kamo River is a wonderful thing. I am delighted that Ibuki made an appearance as well. How is she?

I suppose that the famous cherry blossom spots in Kyoto must be thronged with sightseers, but over here all is quiet. There is a row of cherry trees at the station, so it’s almost like having a blossom viewing party every day. Enclosed is a photo I took. The sour-faced one is Taniguchi. I don’t remember why Taniguchi was with me, nor do I want to. The odd feeling that Taniguchi is lurking in the background any time I go to one of the famous spots in Noto sends a chill up my spine.

In my last letter I admittedly did tell you to ask for advice; in spite of that I was surprised that you wrote back immediately with a request, and even more surprised that the request concerned romance. My first thought was, “You idiot!” but I never expected you to be this much of an idiot. Do you sincerely expect that advice from a mouldering weevil whose motto is “live life vicariously” is going to help solve your problem? Any problem that has a chance to be resolved usually loses that chance once I get involved.

In my view, the first thing you need to do is build the resolve to take the first step. As to how to build up that resolve―go to Yoshida Shrine and offer up a prayer.

“But praying at Yoshida Shrine is bad luck,” I can hear you saying. You’re right: everyone knows that if you pray at the shrine to get into your dream college or pass your classes, you will fall into a pit of misguided confidence. But consider it carefully: what else do you fall into? Love. When it comes to miracles, Yoshida Shrine is assuredly superior to such places as Jishu Shrine in Kiyomizu or Nomiya Shrine in Arashiyama. Give up something that you enjoy as an offering, and pray that your romantic endeavour is successful.

Do you suspect that I am pulling your leg to distract you from your worries?

Of course I am.

I cannot forgive you for falling in love with a fourth-year student who newly joined your club on a riverbank with cherry blossoms swirling through the air. Don’t delude yourself into thinking that you are the main character of some romantic comedy. What I mean to say is that if you think you can still regain a fragment of your lost youth even now that you have started a master’s program, you are sadly mistaken. I considered looking for another shooting star to wish you luck, but gave it up deciding it was far more trouble than it was worth.

On an unrelated note, I have a knack for dreaming about girls that I am interested in. Once, I had an amazing dream involving all of the girls that I had a crush on from high school through college (including the pop idols). They were all sitting in my living room eating kinako mochi. As far as dreams go this one was less enjoyable than it was terrifying, and not knowing how to handle the situation I fled out the back door.

Do you understand why I am telling you this story?

There is no point. Some stories don’t have morals.

In haste,

Morita Ichirō, who failing to come up with a punchline is offering a prayer to Yoshida Shrine

April 30

To: Marshmallow Komatsuzaki

You are right that spring is a season of restlessness, when everyone runs around trying to find a new identity for themselves. To an unflappable late bloomer such as I these people look like fools, one and all. The one saving grace of this remote research station is that I can avoid all those zealous freshmen burning a hole in us upperclassmen with that hopeful, overenthusiastic look in their eyes.

I am currently gazing upon the Noto Railway which runs quietly between mountain and sea. Noto-Kashima Station is deserted. Nanao Bay sparkles under beams of spring sunshine, while the silhouette of Noto Island looms up beyond its serene swells. And Taniguchi, who gives off the impression of a man who has run into one of life’s dead ends, thoughtlessly continues to augment his virility. It feels as though he and I are the only ones left in the world. This is nothing if not a nightmare.

Last weekend, I had Taniguchi drive me in his car over the Twin Bridge to Noto Island. I saw dolphins at the aquarium and stopped at Wakura Onsen on the way back where I visited the Sōyu public bathhouse. It’s a splendid place to enjoy hot springs without having to check into one of the resorts, and the entry fee is comparable to a regular bathhouse. The baths are spacious, the ceiling is high, and there is even an outdoor hot spring. But I assure you that sitting in a hot spring face to face in the buff was not something either Taniguchi or I wished for. Let’s not get the wrong idea here.

I admit that I worry for you. Not only is your love not cooling down, it seems to be becoming further confused. You have fixated on the entirely wrong thing. What do you mean, you won’t change your underpants until your love is fulfilled? Are you trying to become some sort of underpants hooligan? This act of yours will not cause anything to pass; in fact it will cause things which should have come to pass _not _to come to pass.

Among the information which sloshed out of Taniguchi’s mouth at Wakura Onsen was the claim that it is a clean impression, rather than outward appearance, that makes the man. That is why he comes here every now and then to polish his manhood. Perhaps I should take after him and polish my manhood until it droops over. Believe me when I tell you it is important to polish your own. Pay special attention to polish your lower half, and when you are exhausted you will know that you are done.

Assuming that you are going to start changing your underpants as you should, what should you then give up?

You’re on the fence about it, but I do not recommend giving up adult entertainment. Losing your reason is one thing, but to also lose a vent for your pent-up desires could very well turn you to crime. A heart once sullied can never be clean again; there is nothing to gain from giving up pornography, and everything to lose.

That reminds me: yesterday I went to the shopping street across the tracks. I wandered into a little book shop where I struck up a conversation with the old man who owned it. The shop was filled with old videos; apparently he used to rent them out, but once the big-box rental stores started popping up his clientele dried up. I could hardly believe my ears when he told me I could take whatever I liked for free, and of course I found some faded packages containing adult movies of great historical value. I must get my hands on a VCR.

But enough about my sex life.

Come to think of it, you were always munching on marshmallows. People said that you were starting to look like one. Ōtsuka once said, “I ran into this giant marshmallow in the hallway the other way, but when I kicked it away I realized that it was actually Komatsuzaki!”

Hence, from this moment forth you are not to touch another marshmallow.

“But my marshmallowy floofiness is my selling point!” I can hear you blubbering, tears welling up in your big round eyes. But I tell you, you will have turned into a marshmallow long before the world takes notice of your marshmallowy floofiness.

By the way, what are your plans for Golden Week? Don’t just hint at them, I want you to describe them in detail, you marshmallow bugger. Let me remind you that abducting the object of your affections and absconding to Kurama is right out. One must first fill in the moat before assaulting the fortress.

Is your research proceeding smoothly?

You’ll forgive me, I hope, for inserting a little jest at your expense.

My own research is going nowhere. I don’t know what it was about jellyfish that could possibly have possessed me to take interest in such things. By all appearances my work is only regressing. Woe, woe is me.

Farewell, until next time.

Retreating from both romance and research,

Ichirō Morita