Winter deepened day by day. As the end of the year approached, Mr. Koyasu’s prediction came true, with ever more frequent snow in this little mountain town. Thick snow-filled clouds blew in on a north wind, one after another. Sometimes quickly, sometimes so slowly that their movement was imperceptible.
In the morning the ground was covered with needle ice, which made a pleasant crunch under my new snow boots. The sound was like when you stepped on a piece of candy that had fallen on the floor. Wanting to hear that sound, I sauntered along the river early in the mornings. My breath was a hard white lump in the air (so hard it looked like you could write on it), the clear morning air forming countless transparent needles that pierced the skin.
Such bone-chilling cold was both a new experience for me and a pleasant stimulus. It was a fresh sensation, as if I’d set foot in a world that originated elsewhere. My life had changed location, though it was too soon to tell in what direction these changed surroundings would lead me.
Along the river just after dawn a pure field of snow spread out before me, untrampled by anyone’s footprints. The amount of snowfall wasn’t all that much yet, but even so the broad, verdant branches of the evergreen trees admirably held up the new snow that had fallen at night. An occasional blast of wind came down from the mountains among the trees beyond the river, producing a sharp, painful sound that presaged the coming of an even more severe season. This manifestation of nature filled my heart with a frustrating sense of nostalgia and a touch of sadness.
Most of the snow that fell was hard and dry. If you caught the flakes in your palm they would hold their shape for a long time. It was as if, as they passed over high mountains on their journey down from the north, the moisture had been stolen from all the snow clouds. The falling snow was hard and dry and lay on the ground for a long while without melting. It reminded me of white powder sprinkled over a Christmas cake. (When was the last time I’d eaten a Christmas cake? I wondered.)
A thick coat and warm underwear, a wool hat and cashmere scarf and thick gloves became necessities. But once I got to the library that old-fashioned woodstove awaited me. It took a while for the room to warm up, but once the fire was blazing away it felt nice and warm. As it gradually warmed up, I’d take off one layer of clothing and then another. First my gloves, then off came my scarf, and then my coat, and lastly I’d be left wearing a thin sweater. Sometimes, by afternoon, I’d be in shirtsleeves.
In that town surrounded by a wall, the girl always lit the stove before I showed up. In the evening when I opened the door to the library the room was already nicely warm. On top of the stove a welcoming column of steam rose from the large kettle. But here no one took care of that. It was up to me. The subterranean room in the back of the library was, in the early morning, frigid.
I crouched in front of the stove, lit a match, lit balled-up newspapers, and with that some thin firewood, and then on to thicker pieces, gradually getting the fire going. Sometimes it didn’t go well, and I had to start over. It was a solemn operation, like some kind of ceremony. Something people had, from ancient times, continued to perform (though of course there were no matches or newspapers back in the past).
Once the fire was roaring nicely, while I waited for the stove itself to warm up, I placed a black kettle filled with water on top. When the water had boiled, I brewed tea in the ceramic tea set Mr. Koyasu had given me. Then, seated at my desk, I savored the hot tea and let my thoughts wander to the walled-in town, and the girl in the library. I couldn’t help it. In this way a half hour on winter mornings passed with me lost in thought, my mind shifting back and forth between two worlds.
But then I’d pull myself together, take a few deep breaths, and—like latching a hook through a loop—secure my consciousness to the world on this side. And begin the work I needed to do in this library. No more reading of old dreams for me. The tasks I needed to perform here were more prosaic, more clerical. Reading over documents and paperwork, filling out forms, carefully reviewing daily income and expenditures, and creating a list of tasks that needed to be done to keep the library going.
All the while the stove continued to burn away, the sweet aroma of old applewood filling the small room.
The phone call from Mr. Koyasu came at home after ten p.m. Since I had arrived in the town my phone had never rung this late, and it was quite rare for Mr. Koyasu to call me. (I can’t recall exactly, but that time might have been the first.)
I was in my reading armchair (the one Mr. Koyasu had procured for me from somewhere), and, in the light from the standing floor lamp, was reading Flaubert’s Sentimental Education. The old print was tiring out my eyes and I was starting to think of going to bed—the same ritual as always.
“Hello,” Mr. Koyasu said. “Koyasu here. I’m sorry to call so late. Did I wake you?”
“I’m still up,” I said. Though I was about to go to bed.
“I realize this is selfish of me, but would you consider coming to the library now?”
“Right now?” I asked, checking the alarm clock next to my bed. The hands showed ten minutes past ten. I remembered Mr. Koyasu’s wristwatch without hands. Did he know what time it was?
“I understand how late it is. It’s past ten p.m.,” Mr. Koyasu said, as if reading my mind. “But it’s something kind of important.”
“And it’s not something you can discuss over the phone?”
“Yes, that’s right. It’s not simple enough to discuss over the phone. You can’t count on a phone.”
“Alright,” I said. I scanned the clock by my bed once again, just to make sure. The second hand indeed marked the passing time. In the deep silence I could detect the faint click of each passing second.
“Yes,” I said, “I can get to the library. But where are you now, Mr. Koyasu?”
“I’m waiting in the subterranean room. The stove is already plenty warm. I’d like to wait here until you come, if that would be alright?”
“That would be fine. I’ll meet you there. But I’ll have to change my clothes, and it might take me thirty minutes or so.”
“Not a problem. I don’t mind waiting. I have plenty of time, and I’m used to staying up late. I won’t get sleepy. No need to rush. I’ll just take it easy here until you arrive.”
I hung up, puzzled. How could Mr. Koyasu have gotten into the library? Did he have his own key to the front door? He’d retired as head librarian and had been very hands-on when it came to library operations, so maybe it wasn’t so odd that he still had keys.
I pictured him alone, in the room deep in the bowels of the darkened library, in front of the stove, waiting for me to arrive. A weird scene, you would think, but to me it didn’t seem so. I was starting to have a hard time judging what was weird and what was not.
I put on a duffle coat over my sweater, and a scarf and wool cap. And tugged on wool-lined snow boots and, lastly, gloves. The night was cold, but it wasn’t snowing. There was no wind, either. I didn’t see any stars, so the sky must have been covered with a thick layer of clouds. It looked like it might snow at any time. The only sounds were the murmur of the river and the crunch of my feet. It was like the overhead clouds had absorbed all other sound. The freezing air stung my cheeks, and I tugged my wool cap down below my ears.
From the outside, the library was pitch dark. Other than the old lamp at the gate, all other lights were out, like a wartime blackout. I’d never seen the library like this before, and it looked like a completely different building from the one I was used to seeing during the day.
The entrance was locked. I took off my gloves, pulled out the heavy key chain from the pocket of my coat, and, fumblingly, unlocked the sliding door. Two types of keys were needed to unlock it. I realized that this was the first time I’d ever used them.
I went inside, shut the sliding door, and relocked it, just to be on the safe side. Inside, the emergency light cast a faint, greenish glow over the interior of the library. With that light helping me, I carefully shuffled my way across the lounge, past the checkout counter (where Mrs. Soeda reigned), and through the reading room. I proceeded down the winding hallway toward the subterranean room. There was no emergency light in the hallway, and it was very dark. With each step the floorboards gave a small, snappish shriek. I kicked myself for not bringing a pocket flashlight.
Dim light filtered out from the subterranean room. A faint glow from the tiny frosted-glass window in the door illuminated the hallway, just a bit. I knocked lightly on the door and heard an answering cough. Then Mr. Koyasu’s voice saying, “Please come in.”
Mr. Koyasu was seated in front of the stove, which glowed red with embers. The single old bulb hanging from the ceiling cast a strange yellowish light over the room. On the corner of the desk was the navy-blue beret.
The scene there was exactly as I’d pictured it when I hung up the phone. A small old man, ensconced in a room deep in the library, waiting for me (with grayish whiskers and wearing a checked skirt).
The scene also reminded me of a page from a picture book I’d read as a child. In it was a premonition—that something was about to change. Turn a corner and find something awaiting me there. A feeling I often had as a boy. And that something there would tell me a critical fact, which would force a suitable transformation in me.
I removed my wool cap and placed it and my gloves on the desk. I unwound my cashmere scarf and took off my coat. The room was already warm enough.
“Well, would you care for tea?”
“Yes, that would be nice,” I said after a slight pause. If I drank strong tea now I might not be able to go to sleep. But I felt a powerful urge to drink something, and always found the aroma of the tea he brewed hard to resist.
Mr. Koyasu stood up and lifted the steaming kettle from the top of the stove. Dexterously, he swirled it in the air to allow the boiling water to settle. The kettle, nearly full, must have been heavy, but he moved it easily. He carefully measured out the right amount of tea with a spoon, placing it neatly in the warmed white ceramic teapot. Then he deliberately added hot water. He put the lid on the teapot, shut his eyes, and stood, at attention, like a well-trained palace guard. The usual procedure. No, less procedure than a ritual.
Mr. Koyasu seemed to have an internal clock that told him the exact right amount of time to steep the tea. Convenient devices like the hands of a clock weren’t necessary for him.
Finally, when he felt that the perfect amount of time had passed, he relaxed his stance, like a spell had been broken, and began to move about. He poured the tea into two cups he’d warmed. He lifted up one cup, checking the fragrance arising from the steaming tea, conveying that olfactory information to his brain, and then gave a satisfied nod, small but decisive. The series of actions had been successful.
“Ah, just right. Please go ahead.”
We never used any sugar or milk or lemon. The tea was perfect on its own. The temperature, too, was just right. Rich, aromatic, warm, refined. Something about it soothed the nerves. Add anything else and that perfection would be lost. Like a soft morning mist vanishing in the sunlight.
I always found it strange that he could use the same hot water, the same ceramic teapot, and the same tea leaves, yet brew tea that tasted so different from when I made it. I had tried to imitate him many times, following the exact same procedure, every step, yet my experiment always ended in failure.
Neither of us spoke for a while as we enjoyed the tea.
“Ah, I must really apologize for pulling you out here this late at night,” Mr. Koyasu said a few moments later, indeed sounding quite apologetic.
“Do you often come here at this hour?” I asked.
He didn’t respond for a minute, took a sip of tea, and closed his eyes, contemplating something.
“I like this stove more than anything,” he finally said, as if revealing some great secret. “The flames, and the faint scent of the applewood, warm me to the core, both my body and my spirit. That warmth is precious to me. What warms this fleeting soul of mine. I’m just hoping that—my stopping by here like this—isn’t a bother to you.”
I shook my head. “No, no bother at all. I don’t mind whatsoever. But I’m just wondering, does Mrs. Soeda know about this? That you visit the library after hours? I mean, she’s the one who actually runs the library, so if she isn’t aware of it…”
“No, Mrs. Soeda doesn’t know,” Mr. Koyasu said quietly, though not uncomfortably. “She doesn’t know that I come here late at night. And she probably won’t know it, and if I might venture to say, ah, there’s no need for her to know.”
I had no idea what to say to this and remained silent. No need for her to know? What did he mean by that?
“Explaining all the reasons would take a long time,” Mr. Koyasu said. “I really should have told you the facts, bit by bit, much earlier than this. But I never found the right moment, and now time has passed and the seasons have turned. I’m to blame, I suppose.”
Mr. Koyasu drained his tea and put the empty cup on the desk. The faint clatter echoed through the small room.
“My story may sound very strange to you. Most people, I suspect, would find it hard to believe. But I am sure that you of all people will accept what I have to say. Since you possess the qualifications to believe it.”
Mr. Koyasu took a breath, rubbing his hands together on his lap as if checking the warmth the stove had provided him.
“The word qualifications might sound a little inappropriate. It’s—how to put it—a clichéd expression. But I can’t think of any more apt way to put it. I was sure of this from the moment I laid eyes on you. That this person is someone who would take in, and understand, what I was trying to say, and what I had to say. A person who had those qualifications.”
A log in the woodstove fell over with a cracking noise. A small, sudden sound like an animal shifting positions.
I stayed quiet, unable to follow what he was saying, gazing at Mr. Koyasu’s profile, lit up red in the flames of the stove.
“Let me tell you exactly what’s on my mind,” Mr. Koyasu said. “I’m a person without a shadow.”
“Without a shadow?” I repeated.
He went on, his voice expressionless. “Yes, that is correct. I’m a person who has lost his shadow. I do not have a shadow. I was sure at some point you would notice.”
I looked over at the white wall of the room and, sure enough, he cast no shadow. There was only my own black shadow. Illuminated by the yellow light of the bulb dangling from the ceiling, my shadow stretched out, slightly diagonally, to above the wall. When I moved, he did too. But Mr. Koyasu’s shadow, which should have been lined up with mine, was nowhere to be seen.
“That’s right, as you can see, I have no shadow,” Mr. Koyasu said. As if to emphasize the point he held out a hand in front of the light and showed me how it cast no shadow on the wall. “My shadow left me and went somewhere else.”
I chose my words as carefully as I could. “When did this happen? When your shadow left your body?”
“It was when I died. I lost my shadow at that time. Probably forever.”
“When you died?”
Mr. Koyasu gave a few small, vigorous nods. “Yes. A little over a year ago. Since then, I’ve been a person without a shadow.”
“You’re saying that you’re already dead?”
“That’s right, I no longer live in this world. I’m as dead as a cold iron nail.”