BY TOM ROB SMITH
Taro Oshiro entered Aokigahara, the forests at the northwest foot of Mount Fuji. If regarded with a dispassionate eye, these forests were a place of outstanding natural beauty. The trees and boughs were unusually close together, knotted around boulders; there were no easy paths, which caused some to feel a sense of claustrophobia; vines like rope cords could ensnare your feet, but there was exceptional serenity. The forests were not popular with ramblers. Few creatures lived among these trees: a fact science had so far failed to explain. There was no rustling of leaves, no birdsong—a silent sea of white cedars and pines. Perhaps partly because of its stillness, perhaps because it was located in the shadow of a sacred volcano, perhaps for reasons unknown, Aokigahara had become the most notorious suicide spot in Japan.
Taro Oshiro had only been walking for a few minutes, but he was now entirely enclosed by the forests and cut off from the world. Upon entering the cover of these trees, many spoke of discomfort and fear, the unsettled presence of the tormented souls who’d taken their own lives—some would venture only a few hundred meters before running out, believing there was darkness seeped in the soil and emanating from the tree trunks. In contrast, Taro Oshiro, a man nearing his fortieth birthday, felt entirely at ease. He came here often, walked for many hours through these strange forests, not out of appreciation for their beauty but because he owed the forests everything. He walked here out of gratitude.
Born poor, in a depth of poverty that offers few escape routes even to the most ambitious, Taro Oshiro had been unable to flourish in school, holding in contempt his fellow students for the smallness of their dreams, desiring good grades, or praise from a teacher. His mind was restless; he disliked hierarchies and was suspicious of authority; one thing was clear—entirely unemployable, he must become his own boss, control his own destiny, for he was no good at taking orders. However, even the humblest of fledgling enterprises requires a small amount of start-up capital, and his parents had none, nor would they sell anything to invest in him. They didn’t believe in him. He was turned down by relatives, friends, professional moneylenders who listened to his plans, found him arrogant and awkward, and took pleasure in declining his requests. No other moment in his life shaped his character more sharply. He learned a bitter lesson. He owed this world nothing.
A setback, he told himself; he’d devise a solution, and that would make his eventual and inevitable success all the sweeter because he’d done it alone. He paced his village for days and days; his toes bled, his feet blistered, he didn’t sleep, until, finally, exhausted, he slumped in the sun, his mind still trying to find a solution even as his body implored him for just a moment of sleep. In the haze of his exhaustion, the sun warm on his skin, he heard the chitchat of two women from the village taking an idle stroll. This was the lifestyle of the rich with nothing else to do except gossip. Unaware they were being overheard, they loudly and indignantly discussed a popular novel called Tower of Waves by Seich
Matsumoto. Taro Oshiro had no interest in fiction; he didn’t understand how people could concern themselves with matters that weren’t real—there was enough in life to be busy with; nevertheless, he remained still, unobserved, listening to their discussion about a story which ends with two lovers killing themselves in Aokigahara. Such melodrama was of no concern to him until he heard how this story had caused a great number of readers to copy the fictional characters. Like a hunting animal’s, his ears pricked up—inspiration struck.
The next day Taro Oshiro packed a bag and set off for Mount Fuji, entering Aokigahara and vowing not to leave until he’d found what he was looking for—his future. Unlike any forests he’d walked in before, he found Aokigahara difficult to navigate; the compass he’d brought with him didn’t work; the needle would spin listlessly. The dense foliage forced him to climb trees in order to check his position, glancing at Mount Fuji before climbing back down and realizing he’d been completely wrong, he’d been going north when he’d been sure—absolutely sure—he’d been traveling south.
On the fourteenth day he saw her, a shadow in the trees, slumped against the trunk as if the tree were pregnant with this young woman. She was no older than twenty, alone; no lover hung by her side. Out of obligation, rather than common sense, Taro checked her pulse, an unnecessary act since her skin showed signs of decomposition. He scolded himself; he was not here to check her pulse—he was here to check her purse. He looked around to see if she’d brought a bag, a purse to pay for the bus fare to reach the forests, and sure enough, he found a small bag and her purse; he took the modest amount of money and anything that he might be able to sell. Unfortunately, she was a young woman and, judging by her clothes, not rich. His gains were modest.
It was the body of a dead businessman, found two months later, still wearing an expensive gold watch, and with a wallet full of cash, that gave Taro the capital he required. For two months, he’d lived in those forests, like a wild animal—his patience had been rewarded. After cleaning himself at an onsen, he caught a bus to Tokyo, where he would enact his plans, turning a gold watch into a business empire. Carefully, he stole regular glimpses at this fine gold watch, made in Switzerland. He was careful not to allow the other passengers to see, terrified that they might call the police, he would be shamed, and his plans would collapse before they’d begun. Privately he took the philosophical approach that life continues regardless, and he was merely part of the process. The dead decompose. Life goes on, it feeds on the dead. He was not going to feel guilty; the man had killed himself, giving up even though strapped to his wrist was more wealth than Taro Oshiro had known in his entire lifetime. At least he was turning their wasteful deaths to some productive end. But he was well aware that no one else would see his actions that way and that the origins of his business must always remain a secret between him and Aokigahara.
The discovery of the gold watch was over twenty years ago, and Taro Oshiro was now a wealthy man; his various businesses employed over five thousand staff; he’d weathered financial storms; his disdain for banks and moneylenders meant that he never overborrowed. His personal wealth was such that he did not need to work again: he could live out the rest of his days in lavish luxury. Needless to say, his restless mind had no interest in retirement; he was not driven merely by material gain but by a hunger for success and perfection. Though it would have made sense never to return to the forests, since they were the scene of a crime, the dark seed from which he’d grown his career, he could not turn his back on the forests that had helped him when no other person had wanted to hear his name. Whenever there was a problem that required a great deal of consideration, a merger, a whistleblower, a takeover, he would drive to Aokigahara and walk among its trees. He felt a connection here and a greater attachment to these trees than he did to his own parents. This was his home. The child Taro Oshiro might have been born in a village. But the great and respected businessman had been born here, in these forests.
The problem that occupied him today, as it had done for some years now, was the irresolvable fact that Taro Oshiro was unloved. He wasn’t a sentimental man; he felt no need for a companion and would’ve been content to live alone, except that remaining a bachelor could not be considered the act of a successful man. He could not accept the way in which people would dismiss his great achievements by saying “But has he found love?” To remedy this situation, he must find a wife. Wealth meant that he could easily have formed a dishonest relationship based on material gain, but once again, he could not tolerate the idea that people would whisper behind his back that his wife was merely with him for the money. If he was to marry, the woman must love him, love absolutely, there must be no possibility that it could be considered anything other than a success. However, there was a problem. He’d discovered that women did not love him. He was a handsome man, exercised regularly, there was no physical reason why a woman might not find him attractive, but any woman who spent long enough in his company began to withdraw from him; they pulled away, as if sensing that something was not quite right with him, something askew and invisible to the eye. They recoiled, not immediately but inevitably. The kind of woman he required by his side, the kind of woman whose adoration was beyond question, always declined his advances.
As he walked through the forests he opened his heart, sometimes spoke aloud, resting a hand on the trunk of a tree, hoping the answer would come to him here—perhaps Aokigahara would give him one more thing, just one more. He’d already bought the wedding rings after reading an article on the ancient metalcraft of mokume gane, in which two metals are melted together, forming a ripple pattern not dissimilar to the grain found in wood—curves and swirls composed from the random movement of precious metals. The rings symbolized everything he was looking for—two people becoming inextricable upon marriage, a perfect union. In an effort to concentrate his mind, Taro Oshiro carried these rings with him at all times, crafted from the most expensive blending of platinum and white gold, inside a box decorated with the same craftsmanship. Strangely, he loved the box more than the rings, since the lid looked as if it had been sliced from the trunk of a magical metal tree.
Up ahead, among the trunks of the trees he knew so well, he saw another shape also familiar to him, a human shadow—he’d seen so many bodies in these woods he felt no curiosity, only mild disdain for this senseless act, and he was about to turn away when the shadow moved. This person was not yet dead.
Moving with some speed, he walked toward the figure, moving quietly, not wishing to necessarily interrupt, closer and closer until he saw a beautiful young woman not much older than twenty, tying a noose. He’d never seen such beauty and sadness. The woman’s skin was perfect and pale. She was tying the noose with great inefficiency, bursting into tears every few seconds, her hands trembling. On the ground there was a pile of crumpled letters—love letters, he guessed. Yes, she looked as if she was suffering from a broken heart, not that he had any experience in such matters. From his position, hidden among the trees, he watched the young woman as she neared the end of her preparations. He felt the edge of the box in his pocket and imagined saving this woman, how grateful she would be; she was young, with no perspective on the world; he’d help her recover from this broken heart and she would love him unconditionally. She would be blind to whatever element of his character made other women turn away. The forests had rewarded their devoted child once again.
Taro Oshiro stepped forward, declaring:
“Please reconsider.”
The woman was so startled she let go of the rope, lost her footing on the trunk of the tree, and fell to the ground. Taro Oshiro ran forward, scooping her up in his arms. Her eyes were fragile glass. Instead of speaking, she burst into tears, resting her head on his shoulder. It took her several minutes to calm down, and finally, looking at him, she said:
“I am too foolish.”
He thought it an odd remark—too foolish for what? Not for death, which would accept fools and the wise alike—but her humility made him feel comfortable enough to stroke her hair.
Her name was Aya Tanaka; she was a university graduate who’d fallen in love with her professor, a wise and brilliant man who’d seen their love affair as no more than a fling—he’d discarded her, as he’d discarded many others. She’d never loved anyone else. She believed that her death would cause a scandal and the professor would never be able to break anyone else’s heart. Taro Oshiro threw his jacket over her shoulders and she rested against his chest, coiled up in his arms; in truth, he felt sorry for the professor, about to have his career ruined, and was pleased, if nothing else came of this incident, that his career would survive. However, her story proved she was principled, idealistic—hopelessly naïve—a woman whose love for him would not be scorned; no one could doubt her integrity. Now there was a simple test. He was waiting for the moment when she would start to recoil, when she would pull away, but it never came, despite their talking for many hours; on the contrary, she became more tactile, she would stare into his eyes, she would call him the kindest man she’d ever met.
“I never thought I’d experience kindness again.”
She was perfect. She was blind. She was smitten, and she would associate the thought of leaving him with death—she would be forever loyal. She didn’t even know he was rich. By the end of their conversation he was ready to give her the ring and make her his wife. Fearing that she might be scared by such speed, he made a supreme effort to control his urge to propose. Instead, he said:
“Are you strong enough to walk?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s leave this place, leave it forever; you must have dinner with me, you must stay with me in my home in Tokyo until you remember how wonderful life can be.”
She smiled:
“I remember already.”
She touched his arm.
As he walked through the forests, with Aya Tanaka leaning on his arm, the trees brushed against him and the vines caught his feet; he found walking difficult and tripped several times, something that never happened when he walked alone. He paused, looking around at the strange shapes of the trees, and slowly his tremendous feeling of happiness began to ebb away. Happiness was replaced with another feeling, one he was more familiar with—suspicion.
It was odd that this young woman hadn’t asked anything about him; she hadn’t asked if he was married, she hadn’t asked why he was in the forests; Aokigahara was too notorious for a pleasure stroll, no ramblers came here, yet she had made no attempt to gather his story. She was self-centered, that was true—even so, it was odd. She smiled at him—she smiled a lot for a woman who’d just tried to end her life:
“What’s wrong?”
She was quick to notice his change in temperament; not so blind after all.
“Nothing,” he lied, and began to walk again. This was wrong. What were the chances that he’d arrive at such an opportune time? In fact, had he even seen the woman try to kill herself? All he’d witnessed was the crude paraphernalia of suicide, and there had been very little of that; normally a suicide victim took an overdose of sleeping pills to make sure, very few came into the forests with merely a rope and not even a bag to conceal the rope. What was more, she’d readily accepted his affection, considering her heart had just been broken.
Taro Oshiro’s heart began to darken like storm clouds at sea, obliterating the horizon, with lightning flashes of rage. He was being tricked. Why hadn’t he checked those love letters on the ground? They could’ve been faked, written by her, but now they were left behind, vital evidence he could have used to see if this professor was even real. How could he have been so quick to believe? Pretty Aya Tanaka had done her research—he was a famous businessman, after all, an eligible bachelor; maybe she’d noticed that he took long walks in these forests. Several people knew about the rings he’d purchased—hadn’t his assistant shown him the article on mokume gane? Yes, she had, she’d arranged the appointment with the jeweler. Now that he thought about the matter, at least ten, perhaps twenty people knew he’d made the rings; it could easily be deduced that he was looking for a wife; a plan had been hatched; this woman in the forest was part of a trap, she’d followed him, running ahead and setting up her position; it would’ve been a simple task, and here she was, hanging off his arm as if they were already married.
No, it was far worse, this girl knew the secret of the gold watch—the secret of his origins. Perhaps her mother had been on the bus; she’d seen the watch and had recognized his photograph in a recent business magazine. He’d been a young fool for taking the watch out so many times and admiring it so carelessly. With such information this woman would have an unbreakable grip over him. She’d be able to shame him at any moment. He stopped walking, short of breath:
“Sometimes I get lost in these woods. Let me climb this tree and check that we’re going in the right direction.”
Aya Tanaka ran forward, hugging him tight:
“Please be careful. I don’t know what would happen to me if you fell.”
He felt sick at this grotesque piece of playacting.
You’d be fine, he thought, just fine; you’d take my wallet and my watch and make off with your modest gains, except that would be disappointing since you have a bigger target in sight, marriage; you want to take everything I have. You want it all.
He climbed the tree, looking at Mount Fuji. They’d been heading in the correct direction. They’d be out of the forests in less than thirty minutes. He climbed down. And smiled; she wasn’t the only person who could act:
“These forests are quite extraordinary. We’re heading the wrong way.”
“Are you sure?”
There was the proof he needed! The conclusive proof! She knew her way around these woods, unlikely for someone who was supposed to be befuddled by a broken heart. But he would not let her go. He took her by the arm.
“Trust me.”
And he changed direction, turning back into the woods.