Read Online The Isle of South Kamui and Other Stories by Kyotaro Nishimura - Free Book Online
Authors: Kyotaro Nishimura
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hair and, ignoring me, said to her, âIâve had terrible writerâs block lately. I thought if I could just gaze at the sea, I might get some new ideas, and so I came out here.â
âYou talk about writerâs block, but I really enjoyed your latest novel, Parting One Rainy Morning. â
She was praising the book I had just thrown into the sea. He grinned exultantly. I was not amused. Why was she heaping praise on this tedious novelist?
âI focused on adult love in that one. There have been so many rather childish novels lately and I was consciously making a stand against that trend.â
Again paying me no attention, he spoke directly to her, drawing her into âadult talkâ and blithely excluding me from their conversation. I was indignant. I was already an adult. At least, I thought I understood the adult world. Feigning composure, I went and sat on the couch and, trying not to listen to their conversation, I kept my eyes glued on her. Her face looked somehow different. At first I didnât know what had changed, but after watching her for a while I realized that her makeup was thicker. And she had painted her nails red. Had she made herself up for his sake? I was beginning to feel suffocated. I did my best not to listen to their conversation, but I heard it all the same. I was jealous of her laughing with relish at his bad jokes, and pleased when she failed to laugh right away. Oscillating like this between optimism and despair was wearing me out and I could feel myself sinking into self-loathing.
I got up from the couch and went out through the back door, heading once again for the beach.
The wind was stronger now. The parasol had fallen over in the sand and I went to right it, but then left it as it was and walked toward the headland. As I walked I tried to fill my thoughts with something other than her.
Would the student protests continue even after the summer vacation was over? What was Yukibe doing on the streets? And then in fall there would be the high school baseball tournament in Tokyo, and as a senior I was responsible for making sure we won it for the first time in five years. There were any number of things I had to think about. But even so, Iâ
I stopped in my tracks. There, by some rock pools was a little girl of about three or four, her blonde hair sparkling in the setting sun. The child looked sweet in her bikini, her belly button sticking out, and for a while I stood gazing vacantly at her. She was intent on catching a small shore-crab as it poked its head out of a small hole in the rocks. Utterly absorbed in her task, she pouted as she cupped her little hands and quickly covered the hole. But the crab was too fast for her as it retreated back inside. She shrugged. For some reason the crab seemed to want to come out of the hole and soon poked its head out again, and again she pouted and tried to catch it. This was repeated over and over again. She put all her energy into it, and on each failure she gave a deep sigh and shrugged her shoulders. Watching the little girl, I felt something refreshing flow through the core of my being, but at the same time my heart ached. I was no longer capable of getting so excited about a simple crab. If I really made an effort I probably could, but just by making that effort I would probably end up feeling disgusted with myself. With her, I rejected my immaturity and did my best to appear grown-up, but seeing this little girl I couldnât help feeling lonesome at the fact that I was already too grown-up.
All of a sudden the girl shrieked. The crab had made its escape and was headed my way. I reflexively dropped to my knees and picked it up. With a surprised look the girl glared at me and let out a piercing scream, â My crab!â
I looked at the crab writhing in my hands. It had a red shell. Its strangely vivid redness reminded me of her red lipstick, her red-painted nails, and his red sports car. He was probably
âYou talk about writerâs block, but I really enjoyed your latest novel, Parting One Rainy Morning. â
She was praising the book I had just thrown into the sea. He grinned exultantly. I was not amused. Why was she heaping praise on this tedious novelist?
âI focused on adult love in that one. There have been so many rather childish novels lately and I was consciously making a stand against that trend.â
Again paying me no attention, he spoke directly to her, drawing her into âadult talkâ and blithely excluding me from their conversation. I was indignant. I was already an adult. At least, I thought I understood the adult world. Feigning composure, I went and sat on the couch and, trying not to listen to their conversation, I kept my eyes glued on her. Her face looked somehow different. At first I didnât know what had changed, but after watching her for a while I realized that her makeup was thicker. And she had painted her nails red. Had she made herself up for his sake? I was beginning to feel suffocated. I did my best not to listen to their conversation, but I heard it all the same. I was jealous of her laughing with relish at his bad jokes, and pleased when she failed to laugh right away. Oscillating like this between optimism and despair was wearing me out and I could feel myself sinking into self-loathing.
I got up from the couch and went out through the back door, heading once again for the beach.
The wind was stronger now. The parasol had fallen over in the sand and I went to right it, but then left it as it was and walked toward the headland. As I walked I tried to fill my thoughts with something other than her.
Would the student protests continue even after the summer vacation was over? What was Yukibe doing on the streets? And then in fall there would be the high school baseball tournament in Tokyo, and as a senior I was responsible for making sure we won it for the first time in five years. There were any number of things I had to think about. But even so, Iâ
I stopped in my tracks. There, by some rock pools was a little girl of about three or four, her blonde hair sparkling in the setting sun. The child looked sweet in her bikini, her belly button sticking out, and for a while I stood gazing vacantly at her. She was intent on catching a small shore-crab as it poked its head out of a small hole in the rocks. Utterly absorbed in her task, she pouted as she cupped her little hands and quickly covered the hole. But the crab was too fast for her as it retreated back inside. She shrugged. For some reason the crab seemed to want to come out of the hole and soon poked its head out again, and again she pouted and tried to catch it. This was repeated over and over again. She put all her energy into it, and on each failure she gave a deep sigh and shrugged her shoulders. Watching the little girl, I felt something refreshing flow through the core of my being, but at the same time my heart ached. I was no longer capable of getting so excited about a simple crab. If I really made an effort I probably could, but just by making that effort I would probably end up feeling disgusted with myself. With her, I rejected my immaturity and did my best to appear grown-up, but seeing this little girl I couldnât help feeling lonesome at the fact that I was already too grown-up.
All of a sudden the girl shrieked. The crab had made its escape and was headed my way. I reflexively dropped to my knees and picked it up. With a surprised look the girl glared at me and let out a piercing scream, â My crab!â
I looked at the crab writhing in my hands. It had a red shell. Its strangely vivid redness reminded me of her red lipstick, her red-painted nails, and his red sports car. He was probably
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