Chapter 2―The Scholars (Part 6)

Shiraishi fumbled around in the darkness until she felt a sofa. She sat down, and as her eyes adjusted to the light she saw the outline of a large desk. It wasn’t quite pitch black; there was a faint glow at the top of the wall in front of her, and now she could make out an enormous bookshelf there which must be blocking a window.

Nakatsugawa switched on the desk lamp.

“I haven’t really got a knife, you know. But you can’t really be sure, can you? You can’t know that I wouldn’t transform into a coldblooded murderer if you tried to run.”

The room was a strange one, narrow and long like a hallway. Bookshelves lined the walls on the left and right, each filled with all sorts of books and papers. Cardboard boxes stuffed with old art supplies and ancient computers carelessly littered the floor; between them were piles of all the books that couldn’t fit on the shelves. This must be Nakatsugawa’s office, and those bookshelves his collection.

“When I retired from my job teaching art I decided I’d renovate my home and build a studio to give private lessons,” said Nakatsugawa as he busied himself with the coffee. “My wife was as furious as O-Fudō-san; I suspect she’d been holding it in for quite a while. She threatened to throw away my collection, so I had to rent this room and move it all in a hurry. It was a mess, a real fly-by-night affair. But I’ve come to think that it was for the best. Neither my wife nor my son know where this place is. It hasn’t got a phone. I can walk to my favourite second-hand bookshops whenever I like. It really is fantastic, this secret hideout business.”

“I’ll bet,” said Shiraishi shortly.

“I’ve been wanting to have a nice long chat with you, young lady. Oh, don’t look at me like I’m a decaying pensioner falling in love with a woman far too young for him―it’s nothing nearly as sordid as that. You seem like a perfectly nice young lady, but what I am interested in is The Tropics.”

“Will you let me go after we’ve had your chat?”

“That depends on the chat,” he replied, pouring steaming coffee into a cup and setting it on the desk. “What a handful young Shinjō is. He’s convinced that he’s solved the mystery of The Tropics, but his sleuth’s tenacity has betrayed him. He has taken another of The Tropics’ false turns, and I fear that he is only blundering deeper and deeper into the maze.”

Shiraishi raised the cup to her lips and made a pretense of drinking, her mind racing. First Shinjō, now Nakatsugawa. What had happened to them? Shinjō was convinced that she was the Witch of the Full Moon, and it seemed like Nakatsugawa was now also under some sort of delusion. She needed to get out of there—and it was at this point in her train of thought that she remembered the fake copy of The Tropics which was sitting in her bag.

She looked directly at Nakatsugawa. “Let’s make a deal.”

“What kind of a deal?”

“I’ve actually found The Tropics.”

She took the book out of her bag for him to see. Immediately the grin was wiped from his face. He stared at the tome, eyes open wide.

“Where did you get this?”

“What does it matter? Here it is, right in front of you. Let me out of here unharmed, and it’s yours.”

“So those are your terms, are they?” asked Nakatsugawa, and the smile reappeared. “I’m afraid I have no interest in counterfeits, young lady.”

“It isn’t a fake.”

Of course it is. The real version is with me,” he responded, taking a leisurely sip of his coffee. Was the old man bluffing? Or was it possible that he really had somehow acquired The Tropics?

“The key lies in the Doldrums.” He unfolded the Salvage diagram upon the desk beneath the lamp, illuminating the fragmented notes which comprised the Doldrums.

“This blank space is where we lose the thread of the plot. What does that mean? Thus far we Scholars have done our utmost to uncover what we assume to be a single plot. But that assumption, that there is a single narrative, is false. It is what prevents us from reaching the heart of this diabolical book. Remember Chiyo’s parting words.”

“*I, and I alone, possess the real version of *The Tropics,” murmured Shiraishi.

Nakatsugawa nodded. “Now do you understand?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Put simply, to each of us The Tropics presents itself in a different semblance. All of them real, and all of them unique.”

“But that’s impossible.”

“That is why we must consider The Tropics to be a book of magic.”

Nakatsugawa turned around and pulled a cord which was attached to the top of the wall. With a guttural sound like a giant clearing his throat a blackened, begrimed ventilation fan shuddered to life. Nakatsugawa picked up a pipe which was on the desk and lit it; rising from the bowl the thick stream of smoke curled through the air as though it were alive, before being sucked into the fan.

Shiraishi took out her handkerchief and wiped away the sweat. Why was this room so sweltering?

“We have each encountered our own versions of The Tropics,” said Nakatsugawa. “Each turn of the page takes us another step into the story. Eventually the path diverges, like a river branching out into the desert. Where do those many distributaries go? Open your mind to the possibility of magic, and an answer naturally presents itself. Why does none of us know how The Tropics ends? Why does the book keep vanishing?”

What is he getting at? Shiraishi frowned, and as she turned things over in her mind an astounding hypothesis fell out of the sky. But it was ridiculous, it couldn’t possibly be true.

“That’s impossible,” she muttered.

“But it is the truth, young lady.” Nakatsugawa loosened his necktie. There was a vehemence in his voice, and sweat dribbled in channels down his flushed cheeks and dripped down onto the desk. “Why can none of us finish reading the book? Because an ending represents a boundary between the book and real life, and such a thing does not exist in The Tropics. What does that mean? We are still reading the book. The story which you began when you first opened that book is still unfolding even now in this room as we speak. Do you see it? We are still reading it, still turning the pages of the world of The Tropics.”

Shiraishi felt herself growing faint in the heat.

“Can’t you turn the heat down, Nakatsugawa?”

“To hell with the heating,” he replied, leaning towards her. “I mentioned earlier that the real version of The Tropics was with me. It is a book unlike any other in the world, utterly unique, a book of magic in the truest sense of the word, for it comprises the very world in which we live. We have not lost The Tropics: it has been with us all along.”

Nakatsugawa’s frothing, impassioned speech fell on her ears and dissipated like mist. There was a sudden scent in the air, a vital scent, like rain-dampened vegetation, and her mind was transported to Robinson Crusoe’s desert island. She had sometimes imagined the same smell arising from the pages when she was reading Robinson Crusoe alone in the hobby shop.

She narrowed her eyes and looked around the dimness of the room. It seemed to her that there was a faint haze in the air. Nakatsugawa was ranting on, drenched in so much sweat that it looked like he had jumped into a pool. Behind him, in the bookshelves, there was a flicker of motion. Emerald leaves were determinedly pushing their way out between a set of encyclopedias. She looked up: the ceiling was strangled with vines which were unrolling themselves towards the floor. Rustling sounds came from all around her; the jungle of The Tropics was swallowing the room whole.

“If we’re really inside The Tropics,” Shiraishi softly murmured, “what happens next?”

“I do not know. No one knows what life holds.”

“But The Tropics is a story.”

“You misunderstand, young lady,” said Nakatsugawa. “Life is simply what we call a story which has not yet ended.”

That was the last thing she remembered Nakatsugawa saying.

The next thing she knew, she was stumbling along the alleyways of Jimbōchō, with no memory of how she had escaped the room. She shivered in the chill air, still damp all over.

The street wound along between the buildings like a corridor in a labyrinth. The uncertain light of evening draped the streets. In every window in every building which lined her path something was moving. She stopped and looked up and saw, behind the dirty windowpanes, plants unfurling themselves, threatening to burst through the glass and break free.

She forced her leaden feet to move, one in front of the other, until she was running.

◯

At lunch the following day, Shiraishi visited Ikeuchi’s workplace.

The furniture showroom was on the fifth floor; though it was located in the same building as her underground shop, it felt as though it was on a completely different planet. The chairs and sofas which were sparsely arranged around that spacious room seemed less like furniture and more like works of art.

“One moment, please,” said the salesperson, seemingly startled to hear her mention Ikeuchi’s name. A woman appeared, presumably the manager, and informed Shiraishi that Ikeuchi was away. Seeing how warily the manager was eyeing her, Shiraishi decided to come clean about her relationship with Ikeuchi.

“I really need to get in touch with him.”

With a nod the manager led her into the back office.

“Were you aware that he went to Kyoto?”

“Yes, I heard as much.”

“He was scheduled to come in today, but he hasn’t shown up. I called his hotel who informed me that he checked out two days ago. He’s never been late, let alone not show up without calling in; we’re worried that he’s run into some kind of accident on the road. We’ll contact his family and consider what to do next.”

“I see…”

“Would you happen to know anything more?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

Thanking the manager for her time, Shiraishi left the showroom. As the elevator took her back down underground, she sank into thought. She’d had a hunch that Ikeuchi had disappeared, and her muted reaction to the news had probably put the manager on her guard. But what was she supposed to say? That Ikeuchi went to Kyoto to solve the mystery behind The Tropics, but that everyone was actually inside the book, and that Ikeuchi’s disappearance was just part of the plot? Who would possibly believe such a ridiculous story?

She thought about what had happened the previous day: about Shinjō chasing her through the alleys of Jimbōchō, and Nakatsugawa’s delirious ranting, and the overgrown jungle which had sprouted out of nowhere. A fantastic scene right out of a fairy tale, and yet one which she was absolutely certain she had witnessed. It was almost as though a seam had opened up in the fabric of reality, and The Tropics had begun to pour through.

What if Ikeuchi had experienced something similar in Kyoto?

Her uncle was astonished to see her walk through the door of the hobby shop, scowling so feral that he feared she might sink her teeth into the next thing she saw.

“Something wrong?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Leave me alone. I’ve got enough on my mind.”

She put her elbows on the counter and rubbed her eyes. How was she supposed to escape this incomprehensible maze? As she stared at the inside of her eyelids, a jungle emerged from the inky blackness, engorged and rustling in the oppressive heat. She was so concentrated on that unnerving sound that she didn’t hear her uncle calling her name until his hand clapped down on her shoulder.

“Stay with me here,” he said, sounding concerned.

“Sorry.”

“Package came in for you while you were gone.” Her uncle handed her a thick manila envelope. Huh, she wondered, as she took it from him. Mail usually went to her house in Koishikawa.

“You got a friend in Kyoto?”

Her uncle’s offhand comment jolted her, and her eyes darted to the postmark. Indeed it was from Kyoto, and when she opened the envelope she found inside a familiar black notebook.

“Hmm,” said her uncle, looking down at it, “Ain’t that Mr. Ikeuchi’s notebook?”

Shiraishi quickly turned the cover and found inscribed inside, in Ikeuchi’s scrupulous hand, the words

Ms. Shiraishi Tamako,

I hope this finds you well. When you joined the Scholars in the quest for The Tropics, I was sure that your arrival would set great things into motion. My faith was rewarded, for if I had not met you, I would surely have never been able to write what I have in this journal―

She could almost hear his voice as though he was standing right in front of her, and after she had read a few pages she decided she was done just sitting around.

Why had her entering the Scholars caused all those things to happen? She had to find out for herself.

Maybe Nakatsugawa hadn’t been dreaming: maybe they really were inside The Tropics.

Shiraishi snapped the notebook shut and stood up.

“Uncle?”

“What’s up?”

“I’m going to Kyoto.”

He stared blankly at her for a moment, then dropped his gaze to the notebook in her hand. She suspected that whatever he was thinking was probably a little off the mark, but it seemed to be enough to convince him.

“You’re going after him?”

“I’m going after him.”

“All right,” he said, “Be safe out there.”

◯

The skyscrapers of Marunouchi gleamed overhead as Shiraishi set off for Tokyo Station. Thirty minutes later she bought a sandwich and stepped onto a bullet train bound for Kyoto.

When the train at last whispered out of the station she was still grappling with the feeling that part of her was moving too fast for the rest of her to keep up. While passing through Yūrakuchō she caught a glimpse of the building which she worked in. It felt as if another version of her was sitting there below the ground, still minding the shop, and as she watched the skyscrapers and the Imperial forest whiz by she suddenly felt as though she were reliving a fond memory.

It occurred quite suddenly that everyone was chasing someone else. Chiya was chasing Sayama Shōichi. Ikeuchi was chasing Chiya. And now she was chasing Ikeuchi.

She had never impulsively set off like this before. Her only luggage was a simple tote, containing just the basics, plus the first volume of the Thousand and One Nights, the fake copy of The Tropics, and Ikeuchi’s rather bulky notebook. The first thing she’d do when she got to Kyoto was find a place to stay and buy some essentials. An excitement began to race through her as she realized that she was going on an adventure.

There were still a little more than two hours before they arrived in Kyoto. She glanced down at the notebook resting on her lap, and decided that she’d spend the time studying it. Ikeuchi must have left some clues in there for whoever chased after him, and that was her.

She opened the book and began to read.