Read Online The Briefcase by Hiromi Kawakami - Free Book Online Page B

walked for a while. A dog barked at me from somewhere, and instantly I burst into tears. I would soon turn forty, yet here I was acting like a little girl. I kept walking, swinging my arms like a child. When I came across an empty can, I kicked it. I grabbed and pulled at the tall, withered grass on the side of the street. Several people on bicycles rushed past me, coming from the station. One of them didn’t have his light on, and when we almost collided, he yelled at me. Tears welled up anew. I had the urge to sit down right there and sob, but it was too cold for that.
    I had completely regressed. I stood in front of a bus stop. After waiting ten minutes, there was still no bus. I checked the bus schedule and saw that the last bus had already come and gone. I felt even more lonesome. I stamped my feet. I could not get warm. A grown woman would know how to get warm in a situation like this. But, for the moment, I was a child and helpless.
    I decided to head toward the station. The familiar streets seemed alienating somehow. I felt just like a child who had tarried on her way, and now it was dark out and the streets that led back home seemed unrecognizable.
    Sensei, I whispered. Sensei, I can’t find my way home.
    But Sensei wasn’t here. I wondered where he was, on a night like this. It made me realize that I had never called Sensei on the telephone. We always met by chance, then would happen to go for a walk together. Or I would show up at his house, and we’d end up drinking together. Sometimes a month would go by without seeing or speaking to each other. In the past, if I didn’t hear from a boyfriend or if we didn’t have a date for a month, I’d be seized with worry. I’d wonder if, during that time, he’d completely vanished from my life, or become a stranger to me.

    Sensei and I didn’t see each other very often. It stands to reason, since we weren’t a couple. Yet even when we were apart, Sensei never seemed far away. Sensei would always be Sensei. On a night like this, I knew he was out there somewhere.
    Feeling more and more forlorn, I began to sing. I started out with “How lovely, spring has come to the Sumida River,” but it was completely out of keeping with the cold night. I racked my brain for a winter song but couldn’t call any to mind. At last I remembered “The silver-white mountains, bathed in morning light,” a ski song. It didn’t quite fit my mood but I didn’t have much choice since I couldn’t come up with any other winter songs, and I went on singing.
    Is it snow or is it mist, fluttering in the air,
Oh, as I rush down the hill, down the hill.
    I remembered the words clearly. Not just the first verse but the second verse as well. I was surprised that I could resurrect such lines as “Oh what fun, bounding with such skill.” I was feeling a little better so I moved on to the third verse, but no matter how I tried, the last part would not come back to me. I could remember “The trees above and the white snow beneath” but not the last four bars.
    I stopped and stood there in the darkness, trying to think. Every so often someone would walk by from the direction of the station. They avoided me as I stood rooted to the spot. And when I started singing snatches of the third verse under my breath, they gave me an even wider berth.
    Still unable to remember the last words, I felt like crying again. My feet started walking of their own accord as my tears started flowing on their own as well. Tsukiko. I heard my name but didn’t turn around. I figured it must have been in my head. After all, Sensei wouldn’t very well just appear here.

    Tsukiko. I heard someone call my name again.
    I turned around this time, only to see Sensei standing there with his perfect posture. He was wearing a lightweight but warm-looking coat and carrying his briefcase, as always.
    Sensei, what are you doing here?
    Taking a walk. It’s a lovely evening.
    Just to be sure that it really was Sensei, I