A Letter to Ibuki Natsuko (Part 2)

While I was distracted with all this reminiscing, the Gozan no Okuribi rolled around.

Morimi wrote to brag that he’d watched it with a gaggle of raven-haired maidens. I only learned later that this was you and the rest of the All-Japan Maidens’ Association. I never would have guessed that Komatsuzaki was also there. As for me, I just watched the NHK broadcast.

As I read all the letters that poured in, I started to resent not having a summer vacation. Every time I saw the Thunderbird Express stopped at Nanao Station, I had to resist the urge to jump onboard.

In the end I snuck back to Kyoto, resulting in the Incident.

I’ve spent all this time elaborating on my daily routine in hopes that some suave way of handwaving the incident away through facts and logic would reveal itself to me. Alas, none was forthcoming.

I apologize.

I’m sorry.

I’m a pervert.

I’m a degenerate.

I’ll never do it again.

That incident was why I couldn’t write to you in the months after August. I spent all that time trying to find a rational explanation that would allow me to save face and perhaps even earn your respect…which just made it impossible for me to write anything. If I’d known that was going to happen I would have just written plainer, sooner .

After the incident, my little sister told me, “You’re dead to me.”

Sorry sis.

I returned to the Noto-Kashima Marine Biological Laboratory, but before I’d even have time to recover from the shock of the incident I became embroiled in a war with Empress Ōtsuka Hisako. To be fair, I only reaped what I sowed. By whisking her computer away, I was hoping to knock the high and mighty Ōtsuka down a peg or two.

I can hear your voice in my head reproachfully saying, “Play with fire and you’re going to get burned.”

And that’s exactly what happened. I got roasted. I nearly burned the entire house to the ground. It was so awful that I can’t bring myself to repeat what happened here.

Needless to say, I didn’t teach Ōtsuka a thing. I suspect that she’s going to live the rest of her life freewheeling as she always has. But I’ve come to think that’s how it should be. I don’t have a chance of beating her.

And that’s how the long, hot summer came to an end.

Autumn is a season of melancholy.

I wrote my letters, I persisted in my research, and I also had to start looking for a job. I’d witnessed you filling out job applications and showing up at the lab in a suit; now it was my turn. Long had I known that I would walk this path, yet never did I think that time would be today. Morimi once admitted to me, “If I can’t become a poet or a gentleman of leisure, I don’t want to become anything at all.” I suspect that he was ripping off Herman Hesse, but if I’m being honest I feel the same way.

Filling out job applications is hard. For some reason it just feels like I’m being dishonest. Morimi pointed out to me, “If you don’t feel like you’re writing with a pure mind, you’re probably not writing with a pure mind.” But nothing could be further from the truth. My mind is practically spotless. He’s always spouting useless nonsense like, “Use passion to capture their heart.” Whenever I roll up my sleeves and try to promote myself, my shadiness level jumps exponentially, like I’m pitching something on a late night infomercial. If I’m being honest, I don’t have much going for me. It feels like I’m trying to write a love letter. Every time I felt down, I’d mutter to myself, “If I can’t become a poet or a gentleman of leisure, I don’t want to become anything at all!”

“Argh, why can’t things just work out!” I’d think indignantly, lashing out in my letters to Morimi. Komatsuzaki came to help with sample collection, and together we went to Wakura Onsen and even spotted a UFO. And while all this was going on, the day of my departure from the lab grew steadily nearer.

Taniguchi invited me for one last trip to Wakura Onsen. We stayed at the Kaigetsu Inn―”kaigetsu” as in jellyfish, our very own research subject. We soaked in the hot springs, drank at the inn, and talked about a lot of things.

At first we were having a real heart-to-heart, but after a few drinks, Taniguchi started to get belligerent. We debated all sorts of things related to Life, and I’ve forgotten a lot of what we said, but in essence Taniguchi was trying to tell me that I wasn’t cut out for this line of work.

“Once you’re outta here I don’t ever wanna see you here again. Got it, you phony?” he berated me. After that we got into a big tussle, and the inn staff came in and yelled at us.

“I’m never coming here again!”

“You’d better not! Never step foot on Noto soil again!”

“You bet your ass I won’t! But that’s the way the cookie crumbles!”

And so on and so forth. We were really drunk.

“That’s the way the cookie crumbles!”―those were your words. After your rainy graduation ceremony, I believe I said to you, “So you intend to embark upon the stormy seas of life, do you?”

“Don’t you?”

“I haven’t decided whether I ought to or oughtn’t.”

“There you go again!” you said to me with a laugh.

“Even you wish sometimes that you didn’t have to embark on the high seas, don’t you?”

What a phony thing to say, and yet without the slightest hint of ridicule you replied to me, “You bet I do! But that’s the way the cookie crumbles!”

I was so touched hearing you say that to me so breezily. It was truly incredible. I resolved to do my best so that one day, I too could say, “What can you do!” with a smile on my face, the way you did. I’d show off what I got, catch up to you, surpass you―hey, that’s the way the cookie crumbles!

When I looked back at all the braggadocious letters I’d been writing for the past six months I had to question what the point of it all was. Wasn’t I supposed to be getting better at writing letters to warm people’s hearts and contribute to world peace? Yet all these letters had led to was frustration and anger and dishonesty, and overall things had just gotten worse…

My sister wrote the following to me in one of her letters:

“You’re selfish, crotchety, sulky, and always trying to boss people around. So why do so many people write back to you? I think having so many people that are willing to be your pen pal is pretty amazing, don’t you? I don’t even think you appreciate how lucky you are.”

She always gets right to the point.

She’ll never find happiness that way―or so I thought at the time―but maybe being upfront with people isn’t always a bad thing, so I’ll let it slide…this time.

The day of my return to Kyoto dawned. At Nanao Station I boarded the Thunderbird Express. To my surprise Taniguchi showed up at the station to see me off. As always, with his frizzly hair, his leather jacket, and his scruffy face, he reminded me of a fugitive from the law. The station attendant seemed to be a little wary of him.

“You didn’t get much done here. Still think you can graduate?” he asked, a real drill sergeant to the end.

But I’ll be fine.

“I’ll write to you,” I told him. He scrunched up his face, like he’d just come across a dead roach.

“Can’t you just call like a normal person? What’s the point of writing a letter?”

“There is no point. But I’m going to write one anyways.”

“Hmph. See if I care,” Taniguchi grunted.

He just doesn’t know how to be honest with himself.

I didn’t know what kind of letter I should write to you anymore. This next part might make you say, “Whaaat?”, or even make you feel uncomfortable. But I always felt inferior to you. There you were, setting sail in the pouring rain after your graduation ceremony, and there I was, watching you go, just staying for grad school because I had no idea what to do with myself.

That’s why I felt pressed to produce a paramount piece of writing. “Maybe writing this will impress her!” “Maybe this will make me sound like a real man!” I just kept coming up with half-assed measures, and eventually I thought so hard that I lost sight of the art of writing a letter. I lost my beginner’s mindset. And I lost the ability to say what I wanted to say to you.

As a boy, I was obsessed with writing letters. It all started when I attached one to a red balloon, sent it floating into the sky, and actually received a response. The Red Balloon Girl was three years older than me, kind, clever, and a wonderful pen pal. I think I was in love with it all: putting pen to paper, the walk to the postbox, the long wait for a reply. To me, all of that was part of writing a letter. In my head I‘d fantasize about what she’d write back. Maybe it was only natural that I ended up falling in love. I’d never seen her face, but I knew that she must be beautiful. I don’t know why I was so strangely certain. Every time I saw a pretty girl on the street, I’d wonder to myself, “Could that be her?”

So things went until my first year of middle school. That summer, I finally realized that I was in love. “So this is what love feels like!” I marvelled.

At the time I wasn’t as cultured as I am now and had no concept of restraint, so the moment I realized that I was in love I dropped a letter in the postbox. It was so red-hot with my emotions I wouldn’t have been surprised if the postbox had erupted into flames. The ultra-concentrated eau de puppy love must have had an overwhelming effect, because the Red Balloon Girl never wrote to me again. My feelings had so overflowed I’d written many more love letters to work out my ungovernable feelings, and ended up burning them all in the yard, but my little sister called the fire department. I cried, but only because, the smoke, got in, my eyes.

So I never laid eyes on the face of my first love.

If I could write one more letter to the Red Balloon Girl, I’d write so much artfully than I did back then. After all, I’ve spent years researching the art of writing a love letter; at this point I could casually capture her heart before sitting down to breakfast. Just kidding. I’m kidding about the love letters; what I’d really want to tell her is, “thank you.” Thank you, for showing me how fun writing letters can be: how fun it is to have a conversation with someone on paper; how fun it is to wait for their reply; how fun it is to finally open the envelope; how fun it is to read their letter over and over. It almost doesn’t matter what the letter actually says. At the time I wasn’t smart enough to worry about anything, so I didn’t write about my troubles. I only wrote about things like the cup of yogurt that exploded in my friend’s backpack, or the neighbour’s dog that was always chasing its tail round and round, or the dream I had about eating a million _momiman _(that is, Momiji manjū). And that was all I needed to do.

I used to know the right way to write a letter. Part of me still remembers the fun of writing to a pen pal, and the sorrow when it ended. That’s why I’m devoting myself to writing letters again.

One morning, after Taniguchi and I had stayed the night at Wakura Onsen, we were having breakfast with a bunch of lively old men in a large hall in the ryokan. “Koiji Beach,” Taniguchi suddenly interjected between slurps of his miso soup. “What do you say we head on over?”

Koiji Beach is at the eastern tip of the Noto Peninsula. Once upon a time, a man and a woman were in love. But the woman was pursued by another jealous suitor, who pushed the man off a cliff into the sea. The woman, heartbroken, threw herself after him, and ever after, anyone who comes to this beach is blessed with luck in their romantic endeavours, or so the story goes. It’s definitely not a place for two guys to come together, not unless you’re looking for a good time.

But it sounded interesting, so off we went.

We drove along in the car, the previous night’s quarrel all but forgotten, singing a song whose lyrics I can’t bring myself to repeat for you. Taniguchi was driving, so I was responsible for strumming the mandolin. I don’t play the mandolin. You’ve got to go the length of the Noto Peninsula to get to Koiji Beach, so as skilled as Taniguchi was behind the wheel of his beloved old beater it took I believe three hours to reach our destination.

After a long drive along the coast, the statue of the star-crossed lovers came into view. We passed the New Koiji Hotel, as well as delightfully named cafés and hotels such as the Coffee Lovers and the Lovers’ Road Inn. After traversing that decidedly 20th-century section of town, we arrived at the famous Lover’s Bell, a lovely little instrument which is said to bring good fortune in romance to anyone that rings it. But that day the bell was alone beneath the grey clouds, nary a soul around to ring it. “You’re telling me this is it?” Taniguchi muttered dumbfoundedly.

It was October, and October is certainly not beach season. Moreover, weather on the Noto Peninsula can be a fickle thing; when we arrived at Koiji Beach the clouds were thick and low overhead, and the moaning wind hurled wispy raindrops at the glass.

“Get out there and embarrass yourself with that bell already!” Taniguchi said, standing by the car in the rain.

I said a silent prayer that my affections would be requited, then struck the bell. A sharp clang shivered the air over the deserted beach. I couldn’t imagine this bearing any sort of romantic fruit.

“What about you?” I asked Taniguchi.

“No thanks!” he replied, but I hate being embarrassed by myself, so over his protests I dragged him over to the bell, which he grudgingly rang.

As we were about to return to the car, I noticed a grubby red object resting on the grey sands of the beach. “What’s that?” I wondered, and when I made my way over to it I realized that it was the remains of a red balloon.

After leaving Koiji Beach Taniguchi and I went to Suzu; as I walked around the city I thought about the scene I’d caught from the window of the Thunderbird Express as I was heading to Noto for the first time. As the train passed along the western shore of Lake Biwa I heard someone say, “It’s a rainbow.” I looked out the window to see that the rain had lifted; towards Mt. Hiei a rainbow crossed the sky. But as I stared out the window I saw what seemed to be a mother and her young son walking along the raised paths between the rice paddies. And just as the Thunderbird Express passed them by, the boy released a red balloon into the sky.

The train had whipped by, but in that brief moment I remembered my boyhood passion. And I thought it would be fun to write letters back to Kyoto, just like how I’d once poured my heart and soul onto paper as a kid.

That was how my epistolary bootcamp came to be.

Hours upon hours, letters upon letters. When I saw that red balloon at Koiji Beach just before my return to Kyoto, I let myself imagine that it might have been the balloon from the boy I saw from the Thunderbird Express, or even the balloon I myself had released many years ago.

What makes a good letter? I’d written a lot of letters and done a lot of thinking about it. My conclusion: the type of letter that you tie to a balloon and let soar into the sky is the best kind of letter. Those letters don’t contain anything important or urgent. They simply contain an earnest desire to connect with someone else, floating serenely through the air. And to me that seems like the most beautiful kind of letter there can be.

That’s why I think people should write more unimportant, trivial letters. Maybe that’s the way to bring peace to the world.

So ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, don’t think, just write!

…Not a bad sentiment, don’t you think?

I’d intended to explain why I hadn’t written to you these past six months, but being that I haven’t been able to find a reason that would convince both you and me I’ve just been dragging this letter on and on. I think it’s time I wrap this up. I’ve had fun writing this because it feels just like I’m having a regular conversation with you, though I can’t promise that it’ll be as fun for you to read.

Thank you for reading all this way.

One more thing before I go. I’ve invited everyone with whom I’ve been exchanging letters for the past six months to a little get-together on Mt. Daimonji, where we’ll release red balloons with letters attached to them into the sky.

Would you like to come?

After the balloon release, everyone is cordially invited to a sukiyaki banquet. My treat, of course. That is to say, Morimi Tomihiko’s treat. Don’t worry about it, it doubles as a celebration of his latest book coming out. It’s a drop in the bucket for this magnanimous man, so don’t skimp on the meat.

I understand that you may wish to consider this abrupt invitation carefully, but I should be overjoyed to be honoured with the favour of your presence.

Yours sincerely,

Morita Ichirō

P.S. I apologize that this trivial letter has gone on for so long. But I would be thrilled to receive an equally unimportant reply, for the sake of world peace of course. As a Master of Written Correspondence, I am always open to receiving trivial letters. I look forward to reading them.

I’d also like to take the opportunity to pass on the art of writing a love letter from the Morita Ichirō school of correspondence. The trick is to not try to write a love letter. In my case, I don’t think I could hide how I feel even if I tried.

Never, ever lose faith in your dreams.