To Morimi Tomihiko: Addlebrained Author (July 5-August 22)

July 5

To: An author who is surprisingly bad at writing letters

Thank you for your letter. A spate of recent failed experiments has driven me to the edge. I dreamed that a UFO landed on a mysterious stress-induced crop circle on the rear right quadrant of my head, disgorging a stream of chubby marshmallow aliens carrying koi fish on their backs who exclaimed, “We’ll camp here tonight!” For some reason when I woke up there was an apple by my pillow. In my drowsy stupor I took a big bite of it to moisten my parched throat, only to realize that it was actually a wooden daruma which my sister had sent me as a good luck charm (to help me graduate, of course). Woe, woe is me. Why do apples and daruma look so ridiculously similar?

A long string of drool trickled from my mouth as I read your boastful description of your first taste of the sukiyaki at Mishima-tei. The meat of Mishima-tei may be out of my reach, but no matter: I still have Tengu Ham. The time you spent tormenting your poor protege writing minutely detailed descriptions of that scrumptious beef would most certainly have been better spent planning for your next novel.

Seeing how excited you get when you reply to a fan letter and immediately get a response makes me fear for your future.

I was wrong to think that you knew anything about using letters to conquer hearts and minds.

It’s clear to me now that there’s no way that you ever could have sparked romances throughout Japan writing back to fans. I’ll just have to give up my original plan of wheedling the trick out of you, and develop the technique myself.

Once I’ve developed the art of writing a love letter I’ll pass it on to you, so that you too can make any maiden fall in love with you on the spot.

I’m being worked to the bone. The list of failed experiments continues to grow. My little sister has sent a threatening letter demanding that I pay up on an ancient debt. Taniguchi recently asked me, “Are you enjoying your youth?” I’m fed up with this world.

Morita Ichirō, epistolary researcher

P.S. Thanks for teaching me how to deal with slugs. I immediately put your method to the test, but now I have a revolting pile of dead slugs which I can’t bring myself to dispose of. What am I supposed to do now?

July 13

To: Mr. Morimi Tomihiko, gentleman of leisure

It is the time of day where I, having botched yet another experiment, sternly growl to myself, “I am the gold standard of manliness,” which only serves to make me feel even more pathetic.

A friend of mine called Komatsuzaki recently fed some bizarre thing called a “bubble-bobble chimaki” to a girl, tragically giving her an upset stomach. In anguish he asked me what he should do, so I repeated the advice which you once gave me: bring her flowers (thank you for that one). Are you trying to be one of those suave middle-aged men who casually whips out a bouquet of flowers? But what’s the point of being suave if you’ve got to get to middle age? I can’t afford to wait that long.

How goes the game of love for you? All those editors keeping your hands full?

My hands are full too, going over data with Taniguchi.

I know that falsifying data is verboten, yet day and night I hear its siren call. It’s so tempting to tweak a few numbers here and there. It’s not just test data I want to make up. Who does it hurt, really, if I fudge my bank account balance or tell an embellished account of my first love in high school? Isn’t it win-win all around? Happy memories with Ibuki, my TOEIC scores, the sports I played and the hours I volunteered in school, my resume, why can’t I just make them all up?

Between you and me, even I couldn’t put off thinking about the job hunt forever. I still firmly insist that I don’t want to get a job. Furthermore, it’s entirely plausible that even if I wanted to get a job I couldn’t. Yet I don’t see much of a future staying here at the Noto-Kashima Marine Biological Laboratory. I don’t even know why I’m studying jellyfish; it’s not like I like them much anyways. Sometimes I find myself silently cursing the amorphous little bastards. What to do, what to do. I don’t know whether it’s the professor or Taniguchi who will end up drowning me in Nanao Bay first.

“If I can’t be a poet or a slacker, then I don’t want to become anything at all”: a cry of the soul that came not from me but from you, in some café on Imadegawa Street. You were cradling your head in your hands, as I recall. That used to be all you talked about.

I think I finally understand what you were going through.

Morita Ichirō, simple pleasure seeker

July 23

To: Morimi “Great Catch” Tomihiko

Thank you for your letter.

You really mustn’t be peevish just because someone called you a man of pleasure; it shows how petty you are. You ought to be more even-tempered, take my childish sniping in stride. That’s the Morimi Tomihiko I know and love.

By the way, my idiot friend Komatsuzaki has somehow dug himself into the most ridiculous situation.

When I passed your sage advice about flowers on to him the other day, what did he do? Give her carnations, as though it was Mother’s Day, blissfully ignorant of the fact that she was allergic. Even after that, he still somehow managed to meet her for Yoiyama, only to commit yet another blunder. Now he’s saying that he’s giving up on Japanese society and fleeing to India. As his mentor I’m out of my mind with worry. How is a buffoon like him going to survive in India?

The girl with the carnation allergy is apparently a big fan of yours. And remember that threatening letter you got? She’s Ms. Mari, the tutor of the boy who wrote the letter. What a small world. Right now Ms. Mari is the epicenter of a heated rivalry between Komatsuzaki and this grade schooler. I’m telling you, this kid is something special.

I’m green with envy about your jaunt into town the day before the day before the day before the Gion Festival. Sitting in a chic Italian restaurant on Muromachi Street with a girl with sleek black hair? That sounds like a dream. In fact I bet you did dream it all up.

I don’t think you should be wasting your summer vacation responding to fan mail. Keep this up and you’ll find yourself doing all-nighters as soon as the summer is over. Simply witnessing your inability to manage your own life makes me break out into a cold sweat. Now if you’re looking to hire someone to manage your life for you I wouldn’t say no…you really need to stop looking away from your growing pile of work and playing pen pal make-believe. I don’t care how pretty you imagine the girl you’re writing to is, don’t let yourself your fantasies carry you away or you might end up accidentally signing away all of your author’s rights.

As for me, I don’t get a summer vacation.

Lately I’ve been thinking about what a noble thing it is to offer up your irreplaceable youth at the altar of research and study. That is what all students should aspire to do. If I had a summer vacation, I might well have enjoyed it by cutting my ties with this wretched society we live in and skipping off to India with the lovelorn Komatsuzaki (my only regret being that it couldn’t be with a companion of the fairer sex). Perhaps there I might run my hand over the impressive rump of an Indian elephant, cut my hand on its tough skin, come down with a bacterial infection, come face to face with the fact that reality is just as unforgiving no matter where in the world you are, and despondently return to Japan.

In any event I’m not brave enough to travel abroad. I can read English well enough with the aid of a dictionary, but speaking it is entirely out of the question. Ibuki speaks English like a native; she rescued me once when I was completely tongue-tied trying to converse with an exchange student from Indonesia, in a dazzling display of fluid intercultural communication. She patiently walked me through countless nights of English 101. Surely she must be the most gentle person in Japan since the legendary Emperor Jimmu’s Eastern Expedition. I freely admit that, as you pointed out, I may be mildly smitten with her. Got a problem with that? Oh, I’ve finally admitted it in writing. But that’s alright; after all, it’s only you. It behooves me to mention that Ōtsuka says Ibuki’s going steady with a great guy she met in Osaka. But that doesn’t matter to me either. I’m happy as long as she’s happy. I never exactly threw my hat into the ring, but I voluntarily withdraw it all the same. If coming out here to Noto wasn’t enough to compel me to write to Ibuki, maybe I do need to go farther afield after all. I’ll send a postcard once I reach the banks of the Ganges.

I can hardly wait to embark on my journey of self-discovery. I used to sneer at the idea of such things, in no small part thanks to your influence, but I’m no longer concerned with appearances. And besides, you’re the one who used to wander around back alleys trying to find yourself. Yes, I know all about that.

This me isn’t the real me.

Sometimes I curse the fact that I am me.

This is what they call identity dissonance. Isn’t it?

Ichirō Morita

August 1

To: Morimi Tomihiko

I hope you’re in a listening mood today. Fight whining with whining, as they say.

Against all odds Marshmallow Komatsuzaki, despite having become a disgusting stalker, seems to have gotten the girl. His rival―the kid I told you about―has just experienced heartbreak for the first time in his life, and is threatening to carry out an attack on Komatsuzaki using yogurt bombs. As the kid’s former tutor, I’m having trouble finding the right words to comfort him. Komatsuzaki, on the other hand, sounded happy as a lark in his letter, which contained a picture from Yoiyama. He gushed about all the embarrassing couple things he wanted to do―including shocking obscenities such as taking her to Wakura Onsen―laying it on as thick as if it was an oil painting rather than a letter. The stench of pure joy was so unbearable that I rashly wrote back ending our relationship. As soon as someone finds love, that’s it for them.

Enough about that. It’s not my business anyhow.

I’m more irritated by the little games that Ōtsuka Hisako plays. After sending letter after letter tormenting me with hints that Ibuki was dating someone, she finally admitted that it was all a prank. It weighed on my mind so heavily that it ended up screwing up my experiments, but she apparently doesn’t see what the big deal is. Unforgivable. I have half a mind to go back to Kyoto, storm into the lab, and delete all of her research data.

Now I know that you’re a saint and that there’s zero chance that would ever happen, but on the off chance that you were ever to run into Ibuki, and on the off chance that you two were to hit it off, please don’t contact her ever again. Keep your hands off Ibuki! If you don’t, you can kiss all your copyrights goodbye.

Nothing personal. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, is all.

I needed a break from it all, so I went to Wakura Onsen with Taniguchi, where we ran into a bunch of strange old men who called themselves the “Friday Fellows”. We drank, sang songs, and made merry all through the night; at one point Taniguchi started ranting about me surpassing his corpse and tried to wring my neck, and when I came to, I found myself at the top of the luxurious Kagaya resort without any clothes on, watching the sun come up. I never would have imagined that my chastity would be at risk in a place like this. What has the world come to?

I’m fed up with it all, and from now on all I’m going to do is look on as you self-destruct from your obsession with answering fan mail from parties unknown. My sister has joined a women’s fan club dedicated to you. What is she thinking? She should be studying for entrance exams, and if she fails it’s all your fault.

I just want you to answer me one question.

How come I don’t have any fans?

Morita the Fed-up

August 8

To: Morimi Tomihiko

Summer has truly arrived in Noto. The mountains are alive with the buzzing of cicadas, and the fresh breeze carries with it the smell of the sea. The foliage is so fresh I can almost feel my skin turning green. When I’m sitting inside the dim laboratory glaring at my data, I have to suppress the urge to toss everything aside, throw open the window, and hurl myself into the gleaming waves of Nanao Bay. A decade from now I want Taniguchi to tell people the story of the grad student who leaped out of the window into the bay and was never seen again. But I’m not much of a swimmer, so the chances of pulling off this imaginary escape would be slim at best.

If only I was a better swimmer! Maybe I wouldn’t have embarrassed myself shaking like a leaf in front of Ibuki at the ocean practicum. I could have been spending the summers lounging on the beach, knocking the ladies dead with my chiseled physique. It’s too late now. How the sun mocks me with its blinding rays!

I know what you’re going to ask me. “How come you’re at a seaside laboratory if you can’t even swim?” I wish I knew the answer. Life is complicated.

researchstudyresearchstudystudyresearchresearchstudy

I also need to think about finding a job.

Nothing comes to him who waits. I know you’re very fond of that saying. Whenever I’m so anxious that I can’t sleep at night, I put on one of the old videotapes that I borrow from the old man in the bookstore at the shopping arcade. But once the movie ends, the silence only becomes more unbearable. And when I get back into bed, intrusive thoughts start flying thick and fast through my mind. The future seems unknowable.

Back in Kyoto, on the other hand, Komatsuzaki is completely absorbed with his girlfriend, counting down the days until he takes her to the pottery fair in Gojōzaka. “What about your research? What about your future?” I want to shout at him. Don’t fall in love, unless you want to ruin your life.

Sometimes I wonder: if I can’t see what lies ahead, can anyone else? Maybe they only think that they can. Do they all just talk themselves into thinking that it’s all smooth sailing ahead? Are they satisfied as long as they have a job? Then again, maybe a job is all you need. I’m not one to talk, considering that I’m still tied up at the pier, waiting to venture onto the open sea. I just don’t know.

I want to start a company writing love letters.

That’s why I need to master the art of writing a love letter, ASAP.

That would be enough, don’t you think?

Morita Ichirō, temporarily embarrassed CEO

August 19

To: Morimi Tomihiko, contrivalist

I’ve been turning a question over in my mind: what exactly is our correspondence? I don’t see what the point of it is. If we were lovers, it would be to assure one another of our love; if we were friends, it would be for the pleasure of conversation, catching up about the various goings-on in our lives and deepening our bond. I’m begging you, tell me something worthwhile. Teach me the art of manipulating words to make it through life.

If first love was a drink, what would it taste like?

I’m not posing this question to you idly; I know that’s all you drink, because why else would you have turned into a namby-pamby who just sits in front of his desk all day in flights of fancy? You need to sip from the fount of reality and forget about this puppy love business. Shall I send you some of the virility enhancing drinks that Taniguchi chugs all day long?

I can’t express how jealous I am that you took a gaggle of raven-haired maidens to see the Gozan no Okuribi. Your tale made me long for Kyoto. Then again, with you it’s hard to tell fact from fiction. I’m even starting to doubt whether or not you’re actually being hounded by deadlines.

Speaking of Daimonji, my friend Komatsuzaki tells me he saw the Daimonji bonfire with his girlfriend. Apparently you can see it from the rooftop of her apartment. But I don’t think it was the bonfire that he was staring at. No, I suspect that he was gazing at a different set of mountains all night.

Most of his worries have to do with boobs. You could waste the rest of your life debating with him about a passing pair of breasts. It’s the most pathetic thing you can imagine. But it’s an important issue. At the same time, I just want him to have some shame.

Have you had any breakthroughs on the new novel?

Well, you asked me for my honest opinion, so honesty it is.

Your novels are far too contrived. They’re too unmoored from reality. You can’t just let your delusions gush out onto the page and expect that to slide. Sometimes you take storytelling for granted. I suggest you take some time to really think about that.

Morita Ichirō

August 22

To: Morimi Tomihiko, addlebrained author

I received the manuscript for your new novel.

I read it immediately, and immediately flew into a rage. All you did was rip off bits and pieces from my letters, without even doing me the courtesy of telling me you were ripping me off. The elephant rump, the daruma and the apple, the underwear headman who refuses to change his underpants, the person carrying the koi fish on her back―all of it was in my letters. You even ripped off the word “contrivalist” for one of your chapter titles: bravo.

Is this how you repay me for patiently listening to your constant complaining? By robbing me of my youth, the only thing that I treasure in this world? Exploiting a wretch like me―and you still call yourself human? What colour is your blood? You’re worse than a banker who purloins life savings from retirees.

You’re not alone. Everyone around me is guilty of the same crime. I’m sick of it all: my research, the endless letters, Taniguchi asking me, “Are you enjoying your youth?” I can’t bear the idea that I’m going to be trapped here all summer without a break.

I’ve decided: tomorrow I escape this place.

In the evening I’ll board the Thunderbird Express from Nanao, headed for Kyoto. I won’t even begin to list the things I want to do in Kyoto, but the very first thing I’ll do is head to where you live.

I feel like doing something pointless.

While I’m there I’m going to take my royalties for the manuscript, so make sure to have that waiting. I’ll be expecting you to treat me to a drink, something that tastes like falling in love for the first time, and then I think the storied Mishima-tei would be a good place to spend the evening. Oh, and you’ll need to sign over your copyrights to me for safekeeping. If you held onto them, it’d only be a matter of time before you accidentally slipped them into the envelope of a reply to some random fan letter. Don’t you worry, I’ll take real good care of them.

I’m coming for you.

Morita Ichirō, official body double of Morimi Tomihiko