WAS THIS love at first sight? It was my first time, so it threw me for a loop. The man was family from seven generations back, and therefore my—what’s the right term? Let’s just say an ancestor on my father’s side. Anyway, that’s who I fell for. You don’t have many chances to meet a family member from seven generations back. Running into him was sheer luck. At the time, I had no idea he was my ancestor. Nothing about his features stood out. The only reason he caught my eye was the way his lips twisted slightly when he smiled. It wasn’t technically first sight either, for it took me five whole minutes to awaken to the fact that I had fallen in love.

The baby finger on my ancestor’s right hand was missing. All the other fingers were skinny and gnarled. His hands bent easily. My ancestor had lost his finger about a hundred and fifty years ago, he said, when he accidentally severed it with a knife.

My ancestor lived alone. He’d been living with a woman, but several years earlier she had walked out. I love women, he said in a quiet voice, but they don’t stick around. Where do you live? I asked. Downtown, in a small apartment. He swept back his hair with his four-fingered hand. It’s getting too darned long, he muttered. Gets in my eyes. He loathed barbers. Always have, he said. Almost everything else changes with the times, but not barbers—they cling to the old ways, right? My ancestor laughed as he said this. Can I cut it for you? I asked. He opened his eyes wide in surprise. Is it proper to accept such a generous offer from someone I’ve only just met? Sure it is, I answered. I want to cut it. I really do. I could feel desire seeping into my words. He nodded and, just like that, I was invited to my ancestor’s home.

MY ANCESTOR’S apartment house sat halfway down an alley in downtown Tokyo, flanked by a number of identical buildings. It was an old-fashioned sort of apartment house—when he slid open the glass front door, I saw a shoe cupboard in the entryway and, beyond that, a wide hallway with rooms on both sides. The rent here’s cheap, he said. My ancestor removed his shoes and placed them in cubbyhole number six. I took off mine and put them in the same cubbyhole. That made it crowded, so I placed his shoes of top of mine, but when he saw that he reversed them, so that my shoes perched on top. Your soles are cleaner than mine. My shoes are heavier too, he said, heading down the hall.

My ancestor’s room was on the right side at the end of the hall. I couldn’t take my eyes off his fingertips as he inserted the brass key into the lock. I wanted so much to touch them but held back. The wood flooring extended into the apartment to form a small room; beyond that was a tatami room of normal size. The tatami were pretty new. I’ve just replaced the mats for the first time in ten years, he said. I was a bit down in the dumps after the woman left me. So I asked a tatami maker, a man I’ve known for ages but whose shop had closed down, to come help me out. He did a great job, like I knew he would. They’re cheap, but just having fresh tatami really picks up my spirits. My ancestor placed two teacups on a block that sat on the floor. I can’t think of another word than block to describe it. A square, legless box of gleaming black, slightly larger than an apple crate, it could have been solid, in which case it would have weighed a ton, or hollow. A packet of throat lozenges and a tin that had once held dried seaweed were placed on top of it.

My ancestor poured hot water from the kettle into a teapot and from there into our two cups. The rim of one cup was chipped. He took that, and gave me the other. The tea was delicious. That was all it took to elevate my desire for him to new heights. I wanted to move closer, though we were kneeling on the floor. But the room was virtually free of household possessions. A quick scan revealed no fridge, no television, no bookcase, no computer. Not even a telephone. Nothing in the room gave me an excuse to make a move in his direction.

I was listening to the faint sound of him sipping his tea, when he suddenly noticed me staring in his direction. You and I are related by blood, he said. It was only then that I learned my ancestor was indeed my ancestor.

I WANTED us to become real lovers, whatever it took. I had been around a long time, more than two hundred years, but never had I craved anything more. I began to drop by his apartment often. And he always welcomed me, no matter the time of day. He invariably served tea when I arrived. At the beginning, he gave himself the teacup with the chipped rim, but at a certain point he stopped caring who got which cup. The first time he passed me the chipped one, I was so happy I had to grin. What are you smiling about? That’s what he said. His voice was soft and gentle. Hearing it turned me on, in the same way that looking at his fingers had. I was just so happy. Because it feels like the barrier dividing us is gone, I answered.

I never noticed that cup was chipped, not once. You’ve got keen eyes, haven’t you, he said with a shrug. But was he really unaware that he had avoided giving me that cup? Or had he consciously refrained from passing it to me at first, and then forgotten all about it? Maybe it had been random, a complete accident. Or, maybe he was simply embarrassed that I had woken to the fact that he had removed what had stood between us. As I was turning all those options over in my head, he poured me another cup of tea.

MY ANCESTOR spent his days in his room. Might he be receiving a pension or something of the sort, I asked? He laughed. Sometimes you sound so formal, he said. No, I get no pension. Pension plans aren’t feasible when there are lots of very old folks like me around. It has been determined that I’m able to work, maybe because I still look young. Despite my true age. He blinked a few times as he said this. Later, he explained that, because he was still making money, the pension he might have received had been reduced to “a sparrow’s tears”—in other words, to virtually nothing. Since filling out the forms appeared to be a real pain, he had given up on the whole thing.

There was no doubt that my ancestor looked young. He had few white hairs, and his wrinkles weren’t all that deep. Most strikingly, his back was still straight. He had long legs. When he strolled down the road, hands in pockets, he looked for all the world like someone whose generation has yet to come on the scene.

My ancestor made his money working as a life coach. His reputation had spread by word of mouth, so that people who had heard of his services sent him letters asking his advice. The letters had to be certified. If they were express, or registered, or if they came by ordinary mail, he wouldn’t answer them. When I asked him why, he said there’d been some trouble in the past. I didn’t ask what that trouble was. One thing our many chats had taught me was that my ancestor had no patience with nosy people. If he wanted me to know, he would tell me himself.

His work as a life coach ranged across many topics, from moving house to matchmaking, tracking down lost objects to passing exams. He sent his advice via certified mail as well. That was why he spent most of his days in his room—he was answering all those letters. He would spread out sheets of paper on the block and then compose his answers slowly, using a brush pen.

My mother is a meddlesome woman. What can I do to make her mind her own business? Taito-ku, Tokyo, female (age 73). My wife refuses to have sex with me. I’ve been begging her every night for ten years, but she hasn’t relented once. She is sixty years my junior. I don’t want to sleep with other women. How can I get her to soften her attitude? Habikino-shi, Osaka, male (age 230). I have no dreams for the future. I think about killing myself every day. What can I do to find purpose and meaning in life? I need to know. Kushiro-shi, Hokkaido, male (age 16). In exchange for his advice, clients would send him money orders by regular mail. Most were for ten thousand yen, but some were for twenty or thirty thousand; in rare cases, it might amount to more than a hundred thousand yen. My ancestor stuck the money orders in the seaweed tin. When five or so had accumulated, he would go cash them at the post office credit union.

On one of my visits, I found him in the entry putting on his shoes. Sorry, he said. I’m just on my way to the post office. My ancestor was holding several envelopes in his hand. May I accompany you? I asked. My ancestor laughed. There you go again, acting formal, he said. He strode off, leaving me to hurry after him. Finally, I managed to grab the hem of his jacket. Is it really all right if I come with you? I asked again. Whatever you like, he laughed again. It’s just a trip to the post office.

A mere trip to the post office for him, perhaps, but I was thrilled at being able to go along—so thrilled, in fact, that I started to wheeze as I trotted along clinging to his jacket. You may look young, he said, but I can see that you’re as old as your age suggests. His voice was gentle. You should take care of yourself. Rest, if you’re feeling dizzy. Dizzy or not, I want to be near you, I said. His response was to look up at the sky. It’s a beautiful day. How about a bowl of soba? he said, and strode off again. We went to a soba restaurant, where he had chicken and eggs over rice and I had tempura soba.

PEOPLE WHO live to a very old age, like my ancestor and me, aren’t what you could call rare these days. One or two hundred years old is commonplace. When I asked my ancestor how old he was, his answer was terribly vague. I can’t tell you exactly, he said. Probably a little over four hundred. The thing is, he went on, when you’re this old, the days of your youth are so terribly distant. Even your family members—your parents, brothers, and sisters—get lost in the haze. Your personality may have been transformed as well. You can be one kind of person when you’re growing up, only to change later. If you meet an old acquaintance again after a hundred years, you’re likely to find they’ve become someone else altogether. Yet they don’t look all that different on the surface. That’s what’s really weird.

I bet you’re popular with women, I said. He paused for a long moment. I love women, he said at last. And I’ve been loved by them as well. But it never lasts that long.

That’s exactly what I mean, I said, feeling miffed. Getting involved with one woman after another. And how many children do you have? Grandchildren?

There were three children, I think. Yes, three, I’m sure. I wonder where they are now. There should be a whole pile of grandkids and great-grandkids too. I hope they’re all healthy. Health is the key. That and laughter. I love it when you laugh, you know.

Those last words came out of the blue. I was shocked. Seldom had he ever said something sweet like that to me. Because I’m old school, he always said. Old school or new school—it’s hard to tell, I thought, when they’ve been around this long. He poured me another cup of tea. Tea’s good for you too, he said. Prevents colds. Come to think of it, I said, my grandmother used to drink buckets of tea. And she lived to a great old age. She’s dead now, though. Could she have been one of your descendants, I asked, your child perhaps, or grandchild? No, he said. I don’t think so. That’s the one who loved diving, right? She was on my father’s mother’s side. You said so yourself the last time you were here. To tell the truth, the thought that your grandmother could have been one of my descendants did bother me a little.

My ancestor moved his stack of writing paper to one side and set the teacup down. The back of his hand was a little more wrinkled today. I looked at the back of my own hand. It was wrinkled too. I felt a pang of anxiety. What would I do if he died? I had assumed that, having lived so long, he would go on living forever, but there was no guarantee of that. The same went for me. Some of us lived for hundreds of years, while others popped off in their forties or fifties. We wanted to plan ahead, to give our lives some focus, but who knew how long we had? None of us had a glimmer.

HEY, I coaxed, moving closer to him. I climbed up on his lap. Hold me. Please. My ancestor circled his arms around my back. Now we were at the same level. I was a head shorter than he was, so this was the first time we were face to face. I planted my lips on his. He responded a little, but then quickly pulled away. His lips were thin. Thin and hard. Though they had looked soft. Maybe he was rejecting me. Wanting to avoid any hint of incest. It was hard for me to wrap my head around that issue, though. Was our relationship incestuous or not?

I think I’ll do some cleaning, my ancestor announced. Then I’ll join you, I said. Really? It won’t be a burden? If we’re doing it together, then I’m happy. My ancestor pulled a duster from the top of the big closet where he stored the bedding. He handed it to me. Then he grabbed a rag and went down the hall toward the shared toilet. My ancestor’s room was almost empty, so there weren’t many places to dust. All he possessed was a small shelf holding a jumble of plates, books, and clothes, that gleaming black block, and a lamp. A quick rata-tat-tat with the duster and it was all done. I headed down the hall after him.

Hey, I said drawing near, in the same coaxing tone I had used before. My ancestor had wet the rag and was scrubbing the floor of the toilet. His apartment might have been small, but the shared toilet was pretty big.

I watched him as he wiped the floor, scrubbed the porcelain, and straightened the stack of paper. I’m done dusting, I said. He grunted in acknowledgment. What do you want me to do next? Hearing that, he turned to face me. Don’t you know how to clean a room? Certainly. I just thought you might have your own way of doing it.

My ancestor’s eyes widened. You’re a lot more deferential than I thought, he said. I turned away. I’m not the arrogant bitch you seem to take me for, I replied. Do you really think that’s what I’m like? If you got to know me even a little, you’d see that I give people a whole lot of respect. Haven’t you figured that out yet? Has all your experience taught you nothing?

This came out in a single burst. My ancestor looked at me with a rapt expression. I’ve never seen you let it all out like this before. That’s the way to do it! Words are there to be used, after all. Whether you’re understood or not isn’t the point—just let it fly. What have you got to lose?

Words are there to be used? Who was he talking to—the me standing before him or someone else, someone from his past? When it came to talking, I couldn’t remember ever holding back. Normally, I was more than able to get out what I wanted to say. My ancestor often mixed up the present with the past like this. There was now and there was back then, there was me and there was another woman from long ago—and suddenly, somehow, things grew confused. When that happened, I would lose my own bearings. Now or then, me or not me? I couldn’t tell any more.

Hey, hold me. I sit on my ancestor’s lap. There on the chilly wooden floor of the hallway, where someone could come out of their room at any moment, my ancestor holds me on his lap and brings his cheek to mine. I press my cheek against his. His cheek is cold; my cheek is warm. His cheek gradually grows warmer, my cheek gradually grows colder. If only we could be joined together like this forever, I whisper. Yeah, but you’re heavy. That’s what he said. Heavy, he said again, yet he made no move to push me off. I was turned on. A weird place to get turned on, I thought. Someone came out of their room. On their way to use the toilet, no doubt. My ancestor and I didn’t move a muscle. We just froze there, me on his lap, he with his arms around me. A young man slipped by, opened the door to the toilet, then closed it. There was the sound of pissing. A moment later he emerged, shaking water from his hands.

“Hey, Gramps,” he said. “You and the old woman had better take care. You’ll catch a chill, sitting there like that.”

WE STAYED like that, with me on his lap, until the young man closed his door. Gramps, huh, said my ancestor, when he was out of sight. He lowered me to the floor. Don’t worry, you’re not old. He’s just a rude young man. Really.

Returning to my ancestor’s room, we swept the floor, scrubbed the shelf and the lamp with a damp cloth, and shut the window, which we had left open. Working like that had mussed my ancestor’s hair. I could see a bit of his scalp. Perhaps he had lost all desire for women. That worried me. Glimpsing his scalp just turned me on more. I wrung out the cloth over and over till it was as hard as a rock. My ancestor was sitting beside the block, a vacant expression on his face.

I bet you’re tired, he said. You should go home. I could tell my ancestor wanted to be alone. All right, then, I’ll see you, I said, and walked out the door. He saw me to the building’s entrance. I had been in a situation like this before, I was thinking. But I couldn’t pin down when exactly that was. It could have been ten years ago, or fifty, or a hundred and fifty, for that matter—my memory was vague. I had wanted someone, but that someone hadn’t wanted me. It had hit me hard. There had been a moment when it felt as if we had joined together as one, but that passed in an instant, leaving uncertainty in its wake. Could I go on living like this? Feeling this alone? I wanted to cradle my head in my hands. Come to think of it, I did have a slight headache. I needed to go home right away and get under the covers. Pour hot water over a spoonful of sweetened kumquats, drink it, and fall asleep. My ancestor was already slipping from my mind. I walked along thinking instead of kumquats. I passed a cat sitting in the middle of the alleyway. It meowed at me. I meowed back.

WHAT SORT of woman was she? I asked my ancestor. I meant the one who had walked out on him a few years earlier. Jealousy can hit you at any age—one never becomes too old for that. I went cross-eyed just imagining him with that woman. And not knowing anything about her was only making those feelings stronger. So I asked him, hoping to bring my emotions under control.

She had very long hair. It was white and twisted into a bun, but at night she would let it down. Sometimes I stepped on it by accident, which hurt her. I suggested that she visit a salon to have it cut short, but she never went. She hated hairdressers as much as I hate barbers, so I couldn’t press her too hard. I saw her trimming her own hair once—she pulled it all down over her shoulders and started hacking away. That’s a hell of a rough way to do it, I teased, and her nose crinkled with laughter. She was a down-to-earth person.

Why did she walk out?

I don’t know. She told me why when she left, but those explanations always fall short. They’re like plot summaries of movies and novels—they never manage to touch the heart of the matter.

You think so? I asked.

Yes, I do. The point is, she left me, end of story. My ancestor sounded almost cheerful about this.

I was living with someone until recently too, I said. He hadn’t asked, so I volunteered. We lived together for a very long time. About fifty years. But he died. Of old age, I guess.

Old age is hard to categorize these days. Since the human life span isn’t set, the only basis for judgment is how far the physical aging process has progressed. No longer is old age determined by how many years someone has lived. A person can be two hundred years old and still die a youthful death. By the same token, an eighty-year-old can die of old age. What is time anyway? I asked my ancestor. It used to be a lot more systematic, back when I was born, he answered. But what about that man? Did you truly love him? You’re a fine one to throw “true love” around, I broke in. He looked down at the floor. Here he had come so close to showing jealousy, and I had gone and stopped him.

I can’t remember. I’ve completely forgotten him. Right now, you’re the only one I love, I burst out.

Confessing my love only made me sad. My ancestor maintained a certain distance. Like always. Though he never tried to avoid me, we never merged, the way two kinds of liquids blend together. I thought I loved him, but I could never be sure. Maybe I didn’t. But, no, that couldn’t be. Even now, hearing his voice turned me on. When I looked at his right hand, I longed to take its four remaining fingers in my mouth and suck on them, one by one. In such moments I wanted to have sex. But maybe it wasn’t a good idea when I was this sad. It would certainly be better when I was feeling happy. Still, happy or sad, what was the big difference? My ancestor brought his face close to mine and gave me a small kiss. His lips were warm. They were fragrant too, like some kind of flower.

SO MUCH time has passed.

When I stop to count, I realize it’s been more than thirty years since my ancestor and I first met. We’re still very close. But love at first sight? I remember it happened, but not what it felt like. We still haven’t had sex. There were moments when I thought we were going to, but we never did. Perhaps he never really desired me. Yet what’s the difference between sex and intimacy? I can find all sorts of ways to define those things in words, yet in the end I don’t really know.

My ancestor and I take trips together. He gets fed up with life coaching, he says, and all the letters he has to write. This happens about once every three months. His coaching service has become quite popular. More popular than when we first met. My father-in-law’s debts are dragging us down. He has been using my husband’s name to guarantee his loans. Can a son legally disown his father? Chiba City, female (age 32). I live in a village with a dwindling population. Is there any way to convince young people to return here to live? Actually, it’s all right if they’re not all that young. Okayama-ken, male (age 77). For whatever reason, I have no love for my own children. I have no problem with my grandchildren, my great-grandchildren, even my great-great-grandchildren—it’s just my kids I have no affection for. It’s been that way since they were little. Will it be like this until I die? Kumamoto City, male (age 157).

The content of the letters hasn’t changed appreciably in thirty years, my ancestor says. It’s exhausting—so many people are suffering so much that they’re willing to shell out money to get advice. Thank goodness you’re here, he mutters.

I know that women are around when I’m not there. This has been going on since he and I got together. Yes, there are women who come to see me, he says as if it’s no big deal. It’s hard not to respond. But he never responded to me! I worked so hard to make us lovers, yet he has never reciprocated. When I tell him that, he looks me in the eye. Sure, that’s what you say. But you don’t really love me, do you?

What? I gasped. How can you say that? I’ve loved you from the beginning. I love you now. So very much.

Are you sure about that? You always act so level-headed. The women who come to see me aren’t so cool and composed. They’re more devil may care. If I’m going to get close to a woman, that’s what I need to feel—that spontaneity. I’m a simple man. I don’t think a whole lot. I’m drawn to women in the same way that a plant reaches for the sun, instinctively.

Are you serious? Words escaped me. I was starting to wheeze again.

But I’m glad you’re here. You may not love me, perhaps, but I think I do truly love you.

He didn’t really mean that a woman had to be spontaneous to be a real woman—I knew that much. He was well aware of the depth of my feelings for him. Nor could I believe that he utterly lacked similar feelings for me. Still, something had kept us from moving forward. A misalignment of some kind. It was sad, and he was trying to cover that sadness with a crude smokescreen of language. He was acting at once sensitive and sly, and it broke my heart.

WE CARRY no luggage on our trips, not even a briefcase. He and I no longer have much in the way of bodily secretions, so we can go several days without changing the clothes we have on. As long as I have my purse, handkerchief, lipstick, and compact I can manage perfectly well.

Our trip reminded us, again, of how many kinds of people there are in the world. Those long-lived like us, though, were far fewer than before. We’re dying out, one after another. Seldom did we come across a person of great age, like my ancestor, or even someone as old as me. So much had changed—it felt as if time had just flown by.

Instances of the elderly being knocked down and trampled by the young were common now. My ancestor and I liked to get away to a small island in the northwest, on the Japan Sea. Many of the inhabitants were old. The island was long and narrow. We usually stayed in an inn at its far end. The inn was run by an old couple. A husband and wife, most likely. Though we never asked. I call them an old couple, but they are probably younger than us.

After we arrive at the inn, we take a stroll around the island. We walk clockwise, starting at the tip, in a complete circle. It is early afternoon when we head out, and the sun is already setting when we get back. My ancestor and I sit on the sandy beach and watch the sunset. I hold his hand. One by one, I caress his thumb, his pointer finger, his middle finger, and his ring finger in that order. The skin where his pinky had once been is stretched tight. I miss my ancestor. He is sitting right beside me, but still I miss him as one misses something lost in the distant past. My eyes fill with tears. Hey, hold me. I haven’t said those words for a long time. My ancestor puts me on his lap. Heavy, he grunts. Have you gained weight?

I weigh less than I did. But my ancestor has gotten weaker. He could die any day. I cry a little. He does, too. He likely knows his days are numbered. The tip of an island is called Shimazaki—“island point”—he murmurs through his tears. We are crying on Shimazaki, you and I.

It is a beautiful sunset. I remain on his lap for what seems like forever. I kiss his tears away. He kisses mine away too. We blow our noses from time to time. He has tissue paper. I always forget to keep a supply in my pocket, though I do carry a handkerchief. My inability to remember to carry tissues has existed since childhood. I may have forgotten practically everything about my youth, but that I remember.

My ancestor and I cried together for a while. I felt terribly close to him at that moment. Yet in half an hour, when the sunset had faded and darkness had fallen, and we had gone back to the inn to take our bath, the old ambiguity would surely return.

I tested the waters. I truly love you, I said. Do you love me? My ancestor gave me a faint smile. But he said nothing. I truly love you, I said once more, and threw my arms around him. Would I really feel so sad when he died? I thought maybe not. Then again, I might go out of my mind. Either way, my own death wouldn’t be nearly so sad.

I love you. I murmured it over and over again. There on my ancestor’s lap, looking out at the setting sun of Shimazaki.