ON HIS WAY BACK TO THE CAR, he walks past the entrance to a small guesthouse. In carefully painted lettering, a sign announces: HINODESO MODERN MINSHUKU. Although the guesthouse gives every impression of being closed, the sound of a radio reaches him from inside. With nothing to lose, and assuming there won’t be many choices of places to stay, he calls out a couple of times.
The radio falls silent. After a long pause, footsteps grow louder as they approach the door.
A stocky man in a stained apron appears, a pair of rubber gloves dangling from the pocket. The stains don’t look as though they were made by food, but something thicker and shinier.
Bowing, Mr. Watanabe explains he is searching for somewhere to stay the night. The man bows in return and ushers him inside.
The Hinodeso guesthouse looks modest but pleasant. Apparently Mr. Satō, its owner, is the sole occupant.
Forgive me for taking so long to open the door, says Mr. Satō. I was out in the back, repairing some ceramics. Do you like kintsugi?
More and more, replies Watanabe.
Do you practice it?
You could say that.
I used to when I was young. Then, what with the family, I let it slide. Until I said to myself recently: Why not? Naturally, I only use cheap objects. What’s important is repairing them. Do you have a moment?
Mr. Satō hurries off, disappearing into the back of the building. He returns holding a cracked bowl in both hands. Gold radiates from the base, as if it were supporting a sun tree.
Look, says the owner, what lovely cracks.
When Watanabe confirms that he wishes to stay at the hostel, Mr. Satō glances toward the entrance, and—with the expression of someone contemplating an endless line of people waiting—announces that the house will offer him the biggest room at the standard price. He thanks the man with a sardonic grimace and goes outside to fetch his luggage.
On his return, the owner is no longer wearing his apron and has adopted an air of enthusiastic efficiency. He asks Watanabe if he is hungry. He admits he is. The owner instantly brings him soup with tempura left over from his lunch. He downs the remains with a voracity he himself finds surprising. His host sits down across from him.
There were thousands of us here in Hirodaimachi, says Mr. Satō. Now only twenty or thirty are left. At first, I thought of leaving, like everyone else. How could I not be worried about Fukushima? But I felt I didn’t have the strength to move, and the town, as you’ve seen, is intact. As we’re on a hill, the tsunami didn’t affect us. Besides, where would I go at my age? I prefer to stay in my own home. My memories are here and memories need their own space, don’t you think? What I miss most are my grandchildren. My daughter Suzu decided to take them away with her until the situation improves. I agree it’s for the best. I hope they’ll be able to come back soon. Life without grandchildren is too long. That’s what my deceased wife used to say. Do you remember Kurosawa’s seven?
Watanabe nods, finishing the soup with a slight sucking sound.
That’s how I want to go, Mr. Satō continues. Listening to the sails of a windmill. Or in the mountains, like my grandfather. My grandfather loved the mountains. Whenever he had a problem, he would leave the village and climb to the top of Mount Otakine to meditate. Do you know what he did when he realized he no longer had the strength to carry on climbing? He decided to go up one last time and there he stayed, waiting for the end.
And how long did your grandfather have to wait up there? asks Watanabe, wiping the corners of his mouth.
To be honest, I don’t know, replies Mr. Satō. It was before I was born. My father told me about it.
After appointing him as guest of honor, with a hint of ceremony Mr. Satō hands him a key ring with a metal ball attached. Heavy, grubby, a thing of beauty. That’s the key to our exotic room, he explains: Western style. No sliding panels. A large double bed instead of a tatami. And a raised dining table.
When American tourists came, the owner says, they often used to ask for that room. That, and forks. It was quite amusing.
Mr. Watanabe walks along the corridor, rolling the metal ball in his fingers. He’d almost forgotten the way an old-fashioned fob smells, of damp metal and multiple hands. He’s never been against technological progress, not to mention that he’d made a living from it, and yet he regrets that it has caused the loss of such smells. Most modern doors work with a disposable key card or a digital code. Weightless. Inodoro. This is what he is thinking now as he clasps the keys.
He enters the bedroom, slips off his shoes, and, following his usual custom, puts out his few belongings. His clothes in the wardrobe next to the door. His toiletries in the bathroom. His devices charging in an outlet. Ōe’s book on the bedside table. Then he slides his little red suitcase under the bed, like a pet that has just digested a meal.
He has always felt comfortable living in hotels: bursting in, spreading out, and quickly running away. He enjoys the combination of a strange place and a portable home. The possibility of a private space where one leaves no traces, or rather, where one’s traces merge with those left by a continuous throng. We also take our past with us to hotels, Watanabe believes, but that past becomes present, it is nomadic.
In his experience, the art of packing isn’t what to include but what to leave out. The more selective we are, the more our luggage resembles us. Not a bundle of possessions: an assortment of sacrifices.
Once he’s settled in, while he is relieving himself in the bathroom, Mr. Watanabe goes online for a few minutes. He checks his inboxes. He sends a message to the Arakakis, thanking them for their hospitality. He visits Mr. Sasaki’s blog. He reads the latest entry, smiles, and leaves a comment.
Afterward, he comes out of the bathroom and searches for one of his webcams. He needs to make sure that the world is still out there, enjoying life regardless.
He has a quick shower. He changes his clothes, buffs his shoes. He puts a couple of things in his leather bag and slings it over his shoulder.