You and I never visited each other’s homes. We never met each other’s families, never introduced our friends. We didn’t want anyone in this world to bother us. We were satisfied with a world for just the two of us and didn’t want anyone else to be a part of our relationship. Practically speaking, too, we also had no time to spare. As I mentioned before, we had so many things to talk about, and only limited time to do so.
You said almost nothing about your own family. All I knew were a few small details. Your father had worked as a local public servant, but when you were eleven, through some misconduct on his part he was forced to resign and now worked in the office of a private cram school. What this misconduct was all about, I had no idea, but it seemed like something you didn’t want to talk about. Your birth mother had died of cancer when you were three, and you had almost no memories of her. You couldn’t even recall what she looked like. When you were five your father remarried, and the next year your little sister was born. So your present mother was actually your stepmother, though once you happened to say something that suggested you felt a bit closer to your stepmother than to your father. A throwaway comment in tiny print in the corner of a book’s page. Regarding your half sister, who was six years younger, you said little, only, “She’s allergic to cat fur, so we don’t have any cats.” That’s all.
When you were a child, the only person you truly felt close to was your maternal grandmother. Whenever you had a chance, you’d take the train by yourself to your grandmother’s house in the neighboring ward. On school holidays you’d even stay over for a few days. Your grandmother loved you unconditionally and would even buy you little presents from her meager income. But every time you went to visit your grandmother, the expression on your stepmother’s face made it clear how dissatisfied she was, and though she never came out and said anything, you visited your grandmother less and less. And several years ago, your grandmother suddenly passed away from heart disease.
You explained these things to me in bits and pieces. Like finding a ragged item in an old coat pocket.
One other thing I remember clearly even now is that whenever you spoke about your family you stared, for some reason, at your palms. As if in order to follow the thread of the story, you needed to carefully decipher something written there.
As for me, there was very little I felt I needed to tell you about my family. My parents were just your average, everyday kind of parents. My father worked in a pharmaceutical company, and my mother was a full-time housewife. They did things like ordinary, run-of-the-mill parents, and talked like ordinary, run-of-the-mill parents. We had a pet, an elderly black cat. There wasn’t anything notable about my life at school, either. My grades weren’t so bad, though not good enough that anyone would notice. The one place at school I could really feel relaxed in was the school library. I loved to read books there and to spend time daydreaming. Most of the books I wanted to read could be found there.
I clearly recall the day I first met you. There was an awards ceremony for a high school essay contest. The top five recipients were invited to the ceremony. I was in third place and you were in fourth, so we were seated beside each other. It was in the fall. I was in my second year of high school and you were in your first. The ceremony was completely boring, so during the lulls, the two of us exchanged a few words in low voices. You wore a navy-blue blazer and a matching navy-blue pleated skirt. A white blouse with a ribbon, white socks, and black slip-on shoes. Your socks were pure white, your shiny shoes perfectly polished, like seven kindly dwarves had neatly buffed them at dawn.
I wasn’t a great writer. I’d loved reading since I was a kid and would pick up a book whenever I had a spare moment, but I don’t think I had any literary talent. But all of us in Japanese class were forced to write an essay for the contest. And mine was chosen from all of these, sent to the selection committee, made it to the finals, and unexpectedly was awarded one of the top prizes. Honestly, I couldn’t fathom what was so good about what I’d written. When I reread it, it struck me as worthless, mediocre. But some of the judges thought it was worth a prize so it must have had something going for it. My teacher, a woman, was ecstatic that I got a prize. This was the first time in my life that any teacher had been so pleased with anything I’d done. So I kept my opinions to myself and gratefully accepted the prize.
The essay contest was held every fall, district-wide, and each year they assigned a different theme. The theme that year was “My Friend.” We had to write five pages by hand, and sadly I didn’t have a single friend I could write that much about, so I wrote about our family cat. I tried to convey how that old female cat and I got along, our life together, how we expressed our feelings to each other—though there were limits to this, of course. My cat was clever, with her own personality, and I had a lot of things to say about it. I guess there must have been a few cat lovers among the judges. People who love cats naturally like other cat lovers.
You wrote about your maternal grandmother. About the reciprocal feelings between a lonely elderly woman and a lonely young girl. And about the subtle, true values that arose from this relationship. The essay was charming and moving. A hundred times better than the one I wrote. I couldn’t understand why mine got third place, while yours got fourth. And I told you that honestly. You grinned and said you thought the opposite. What you wrote, you said, was so much better than mine. Really, you added. No lie.
“Your family’s cat seems wonderful.”
“Yep, she is very clever,” I said.
You smiled at that.
“Do you have a cat?” I asked.
You shook your head. “My younger sister’s allergic to cat fur.”
That was the first tidbit of personal information I got about you. Her younger sister is allergic to cat fur.
You were a beautiful young girl. To my eyes, at least. Petite, with a sort of roundish face and slim, lovely fingers. Your hair was short, with neatly trimmed black bangs on your forehead. Like careful, scrupulously drawn shading. Your nose was straight and small, your eyes quite large. By most standards, the balance between the size of your nose and your eyes was off-kilter, but for some reason that imbalance attracted me. Your light pink lips were small and thin, always properly closed. As if some vital secrets were hidden deep inside.
The five of us award recipients climbed up onstage in order and were ceremoniously presented with certificates and commemorative medals. The tall girl who won first prize gave a short speech. We were also presented with fountain pens. (The fountain pen company sponsored the contest. The pen remained my favorite for years.)
Just before the tedious, boring ceremony ended, I jotted down my name and address in my memo pad, ripped out the page, and surreptitiously passed it to you.
“I was hoping maybe you could write me a letter sometime?” I whispered, my voice dry.
Normally I’d never be so bold. I was basically a shy person (and timid, too, of course). But the thought that we’d say good-bye there and never see each other again felt like a huge mistake, totally unfair. So I gathered my courage and plunged ahead.
Looking a bit surprised, you took the piece of paper, folded it twice, and stowed it away in the breast pocket of your blazer. On top of the gentle, mysterious slope of your chest. You brought a hand to your bangs and blushed slightly.
“I’d like to read more of what you write,” I said, sounding like someone giving an awkward excuse, after opening the wrong door.
“I’d like to read the letters you write, too,” you said, nodding a few times. As if encouraging me.
Your letter arrived a week later. It was amazing. I must have read it at least twenty times. Then I sat down at my desk and, using the pen I’d received as a prize, wrote a long reply. This is how we began writing to each other, and how our friendship began.
Were we boyfriend and girlfriend? Was it okay to easily label us that? I don’t know. But at least during that period, for nearly a year, our hearts were purely one, unsullied by anything beyond. And we went on to create and share a special, secret world of our own—a strange town surrounded by a high wall.