Something to do

He liked to use those recycled paper, brown card-stock covered notebooks from the no-brand-name shop. The paper was smooth and cream colored and the notebooks had a shiny red, woven ribbon glued into the spine for keeping one's place. The notebooks were a dollar a piece. They seemed worth it to him.

For writing, he used long, round, plain wood pencils with hard leads and no eraser. He never erased. When he wanted to change something, he just struck through it like this and quickly kept moving across the page, scrawling words that he could barely read himself when he went back to read them.

After weeks of writing, scribbling, scrawling, the notebook would be mostly filled and the end of the ribbon a little frayed. The long pencil's lead was dull and it was no longer really such a long pencil. It might only be four inches. And his fingers ached and cramped, his knuckles were a little sore. But it was something to do.

Religion

The first shop was closed. The doorman apologized, but told him there was another on the other side of the railroad. The traveller opened his umbrella and set off through the cold rain. He was hungry, and cold weather had come into the town but he was happy. He thought he might stop in some place and buy a can of beer and drink it on the way back from the fishing shop.

The shop was warm and cozy in its being filled with books and heavy canvas bags and wool clothing, hundreds of rods, the split cane ones in glass cases, gleaming, precise reels, and a few customers -- that eccentric sort that are the fly-fishermen -- carefully regarding whatever it was they were after that particular evening. The young, disheveled looking fellow with the heavy glasses was squatting in front of the drawers that held thin reels of monofilament. He wanted to tie up some leaders this week and he was trying to decide between the clear line and the light brown "gut". It was a tough, but important decision.

Our traveller put his umbrella away and went over to the sliding wooden panels, pegged and stocked with all the hen and rooster capes and game bird skins. After looking through the top grade rooster capes that ranged from $100 up to $150 (pricey, but he thought he might like to buy one some day soon), he moved on to the partridge skins which were much more reasonably priced and what he was after today anyway. He was going to tie up some of his favorite flies in the world. They were simple, but that added to their appeal. He was going to tie up the old Cumberland pattern. He was going to tie the Partridge and Orange. Just thinking the name filled him with that sense of the sacred. Standing there in the warm shop, he was filled with religion.

"Leaves" Chapter 6

What could he tell her about death? She was a nurse, after all. With her own hands, she'd delivered over a hundred babies. Only a few times had something been wrong, and from those few times, it would seem, she knew more about death than Paul could know.

But the thing I haven't told you about Paul is that everywhere he lived, girls died. The sadness seemed to follow him as if it were a shadow watching from behind a tree. And he'd always gotten away from it.
Continued...
The girl in the old village. She'd been there just an instant, in the corner of his eye. And there was the girl from the south. The one that had been pushed out of the car on the highway. They collared a teacher for that one. He'd been suffering from depression, they said. The girl had been abused by her father and was living at a home for troubled children. And she was meeting guys she got to know through her mobile phone. Not for the money, but for the companionship, the warmth. That's how she'd supposedly met the teacher. And then there was the girl in the north they'd found in the woods. But nobody'd confessed to that one yet.

There is a word from the greek. Translated, it comes out roughly as "shattered mind", but it's not as frightening as it seems. It simply means the ability to compartmentalize. To remember when useful. To forget when necessary. Imagine a shattered mirror. No, that's too frightening. Broken glass is dangerous. But still, it's a useful metaphor, each shard still in place, held by the mosaic of other broken pieces in the mirror's frame, each piece reflecting a slightly different angle on what stands before it. A useful metaphor, but still a disturbing image. Think rather of the leaves back in the old town, before they'd been crushed into fine bits under foot. All the leaves patterned, colors slightly varied, fitted together, again like a mosaic. An impressionist's portrait. That's how the leaves in the water had looked, Paul thought. At least, that's how they'd been until he looked closer.

He moved away. He tried to forget.

---

It was fall again. Shizuka had big plans for Paul's birthday. She'd been thinking about it for weeks, all the things she wanted to do. A nice birthday cake she would bake for him. One of the nice restaurants, perhaps that French one she'd read about in the city. She would take him there. She thought about what sort of present to give him. Spending the night at his apartment. The photographs she wanted to take of them together -- at the restaurant, blowing out the candles, opening the present.

So you can imagine how she felt when they were standing on the bridge in the village and he told her he would be going off hiking and camping alone for his birthday, how he did that every year.

"Why don't you want to spend your birthday with me?" she'd asked, very hurt.

"It's not that I don't want to spend it with you. It's just that I always go off alone this time of year."

She was shaking her head.

"I know it's strange," Paul added.

"Don't you like me?" she asked.

"Of course I like you! I like you just fine."

"So spend the weekend with me."

"Can't we celebrate my birthday next week?"

Shizuka lowered her head and shook it slowly. After some minutes, she looked up again and said, "I don't want to see you any more."

Why was she so attached to the sentimentality of the day, Paul thought. It's just like any other day. Really, it is.

This was as bad as the time she'd bought the new mobile phone and become so upset when the store clerks called the number to check it. She'd insisted they reset the phone's memory because she wanted the first call to be one from Paul.

Well, this wasn't as bad as that time, he thought.

But she didn't want to see him anymore? To whom did his birthday belong, he wondered. Was it a day for him? (To go off hiding in the woods -- not to die alone, but to grow a little older alone.) Or was it a day for her and the people around him? Was he being selfish? Was she?

He wasn't sure. But he already knew about the vindictive streak that ran through him. She didn't want to see him anymore? Fine.

"I see," he said, and looked at her, but she didn't look up at him. Then he turned slowly and began walking away. He turned once to look back and she was watching him.

Back at his apartment, he felt empty. But he also felt a strange form of liberation. The vindictiveness always hurt him in the long run, but he never seemed able (or willing) to stop it when it came.

He tried to concentrate on packing. He went to the bookshelf and took out the little brown notebook where he'd written the list years ago. In a way, it was a compendium of all the mistakes he'd ever made, all the things he'd forgotten when he'd gone into the woods.

But just the act of opening it... There she was. Shizuka. His conversation with her intruding, sweeping into the mind. He pushed it away. That never works.

pack
flashlight
extra batteries

"Why don't you want to spend your birthday with me?" He pushed it away.

water filter - This one he'd learned the hard way, hiking down the mountain just for water and then back up. All that, when there were cold, clear brooks here and there along the hike. Of course, the locals simply drank directly from the stream.

sleep bag
tent
knife
bamboo hatchet

The phone rang. He knew it was Shizuka. No one else ever called. Should he answer? Just as he never seemed able to stop that sweet vindictive instant, he didn't stop his hand, moving to the phone, lifting the receiver.

"Hello?"

He heard a sniffle.

"Can I come over?" It was Shizuka.

He sighed.

"I thought you didn't want to see me anymore."

He could hear her crying now.

"No," she said. "I want to come over."

He breathed out again, trying to keep his mouth away from the receiver.

"I think if you got that mad at me today." He paused. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say. "Maybe we should stay apart for a while."

She sniffled again.

"OK?" he asked.

"I'm coming over," she said after a moment.

"Look, Shizuka. You said you didn't want to see me anymore."

"No."

"I just wanna break for a while," he said.

"No. I..." she was crying again.

"We can talk when I get back."

"I'm coming over."

It was exasperating. "Well, I won't be here," he said.

She hung up. He didn't know where he'd go, but he didn't want to deal with it all just now. He got his cap and wallet and coat and he left the apartment. He walked up the hill and went past the farm houses. He didn't know how long he would stay away. He didn't know what he was doing.

The path led up through the grove to a point on a road where he could look out over the valley and see the lights in houses there in the evening. He watched the lights through the mist.

Was she really coming over? Couldn't she understand it would be better to take a break for a while? With the lights down in the valley flickering in the evening air, he wanted to stand there all night. It wouldn't be fatigue, or cold, or even boredom that would take him away. He wanted to stay there, to be tranquil, without worrying. But he didn't even try to keep it away now. It was useless.

After perhaps an hour, he started back. The road led back down the hill and approached the apartment from the back. Someone was at the back sliding glass door.

"Shizuka?" he called softly.

"No!" She wailed.

"Shh!" he called, rushing over to her. She collapsed in his arms, crying. "No!" she said over and over, much too loudly. The neighbors would hear. She was huddled on the concrete, shaking and he had his arms around her.

"No! No!" was all she could say.

He had to get her inside. She wouldn't budge.

"Wait a moment," he whispered, trying to make it sound as gentle as possible. He ran around to the front door, unlocked it and came to the back door and slid it open. He stepped outside and tried to lift her. She only stood grudgingly, still crying, and she came inside. He shut the door.

"Shhh," he said softly. He stroked her hair.

"No." she said again, a little more softly, a little more like a young girl. She was shaking her head again.

"But you said you didn't want to see me anymore." He was holding her.

"No," she said again.

An American Guy

An American guy sits down on a boulder by a stream in the mountains of Japan. He unbuttons the breast pocket of his jacket and takes out a can of Swedish-made snus. It's a paperboard can with a shiny blue label. The tobacco has juniper berry oil mixed in with it. It's pretty good. It was a pretty good stream, too. He'd caught three brook trout, released two and kept one that appeared to be a little lame. A car drove onto the bridge upstream and the driver slowed to watch the American.

Blue Jeans

She wore blue jeans with little rhinestone hearts on the back pockets. What this means is that she had little glittering hearts on her ass. This brought his eyes up, up further, to her face where he found the face of a middle school girl.

"Leaves" Chapter 5

"Look at the ducks!"

Shizuka pointed down the slope past the two houses.

"Yes," Paul said. Strangely, he was thinking of Coq au Vin. A girl he'd been dating a while back - a girl with plenty of money and a fondness for "foreigners" - had taken him to a fancy "dining bar" in the metropolis. The hostess-cum-waitress had brought slices of mimolette and Paul told the girl it was from Switzerland. But the waitress had corrected him. "It's from France," she'd said. "Oh," Paul said and felt foolish. Then they ordered Coq au Vin and he told the girl "coq" means chicken and the waitress had to correct him again, although he was pretty sure about it this time. "It's duck," she'd said. Well, at least this "dining bar's" version was duck. Things aren't always as they seem.

The dogs had finally stopped barking. Shizuka had insisted they go to view the cherry blossoms on the weekend and Paul, for his part, had insisted they find some place where there weren't a thousand people saying "It's beautiful, isn't it?" melodically, cloyingly, repeating it like a mantra. He'd tried to explain to Shizuka his thoughts on "codified beauty" and she'd just smiled at him, so he gave it up. But she liked the idea of finding some place secluded and so that morning he'd led her up a path in the forest to a little hill overlooking a nice river where he knew there were cherry trees. He'd forgotten about the caged hunting dogs and the stench of the drying boar pelts at the two houses on the way, but they were above that now and the dogs had shut up. The stream running in the valley below was pretty.
Continued...

"This is a nice place you found," Shizuka said.

"It's not bad, huh."

"Let's have some wine."

"OK"

She opened her backpack and took out a soft insulated case with three little bottles of wine "en screwcap". She had clear, hard-plastic cups and poured out some of the red wine for Paul and then waited for him to take the bottle from her and pour for her. Then he capped the bottle and leaned it up against her pack.

They tapped glasses with a little sloshy click of plastic and Shizuka said "cheers!" as she'd learned somewhere, smiling prettily with her beautiful lips.

"Prost" Paul said.

They sipped at the wine. She was watching him to see if he liked the wine she'd chosen.

"Not bad!" he said and smiled. Shizuka looked relieved.

They looked out over the valley and both took a second drink of their wine. Then Shizuka lifted her head up to the blossoms spread over them, casting the two of them in speckled shade, sitting on her mats below the trees.

"It's pretty isn't it?"

"Yes," Paul said and smiled. It was pretty, he had to admit, codified or not...

"I wish there was someone we could ask to take a picture."

Paul smiled. "Yeah, it's too bad." He shook his head and winked at her.

Shizuka had put together quite an impressive picnic lunch. Paul thought she'd overdone it a bit, but he sensed that she'd been waiting for this opportunity for some years, so he told himself to keep quiet and just enjoy the nice lunch. And they both did enjoy it.

After they'd finished eating sandwiches and salad, camembert with nice crusty rolls and the second bottle of red wine, Shizuka took out two little cakes on foil doilies.

"Where did you get these?" Paul asked.

"I made them!" she said.

"Wow! They're beautiful!" He leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek and she smiled.

They ate the little cakes with plastic forks and when they'd finished, they were both feeling full and they drank the third little bottle of wine - the white wine, since no one was there to lecture them on the proper order of red or white or whatever. Then Paul was sleepy and Shizuka was a little drunk and she wanted to kiss him. And although he was worried someone from the houses below might be watching, he still let his hands move over her where they wanted and he let her do all the things she wanted to.

They were lying back on the mats and looking up at the blossoms and the blue and white of the sky overhead.

"These are like death," Shizuka said.

At first, he was surprised but then he quickly knew what she meant and said, "oh".

"The cherry blossoms are beautiful. But they only stay a week. Then they fall," she said.

"Yes," he nodded up and down against the mat.

"What do you think?" she asked as she looked over at him. But before she gave him a chance to answer, she was propping herself up and leaning over to kiss him.

They were kissing a long time and Paul indulged his bad habit of opening his eyes and when he did, he saw her wonderful face, her closed eyes, reading her feelings in that beautiful face and the white-pink petals and he thought how odd, but how fitting. Her mouth. Beauty. Death.

Later, they'd packed everything and were walking down the path, the dogs snarling and barking at them again. The smeared boar pelts, hung over the guardrail by the snaking, one-lane road. They were down near the stream and walking over the wooden bridge. Shizuka was very happy. Paul was quite happy, too. However the afternoon had taxed him for some reason he couldn't pinpoint. He sensed it might be what she'd said about death. Cherry blossoms and codified beauty.

I could tell you a story about death, he thought. But he didn't want to poison the feeling because she was really a rather nice girl and he didn't want to be a bastard.

"Leaves" Chapter 4

In the newspaper, nearly two months after they'd found the girl in the river, Paul read about how it had been solved. The newspapers told of how a man named Sagawa had walked into the police station in the old town and turned himself in. Based on his confession, he was quickly tried and convicted. The authorities in this country have a remarkable rate of conviction, being based largely on confessions made when no lawyers are present. In this case, the police also didn't mind that Sagawa had a history of mental illness. Quite the contrary, it reinforced their sense that this must be the guy.

Actually, it was only the English language paper that mentioned his past. Mental illness being something that just isn't talked about in this culture. Of course, if his family was rich enough, he might be freed after a little time in an institution. He might even become a sort of minor celebrity and get his own column in a lifestyle magazine or something.

But unfortunately for Sagawa, he had no family to speak of and was quickly hanged and his body cremated and the ashes entombed in an unmarked grave at the prison. Continued...
And noone bothered to take the ashes in the dead of night to a shrine so that he could become a "kami" and enter heaven.

I digress.

It was interesting for Paul to read all of this, but as I said before, it was very much in the past for him. In the mountains near his new home, he found trails to wander and explore. The trails wound through broadleaf forests and were rich in life. Sometimes he chanced upon deer and stood still, watching them gallop away. He could feel the ground resonate under the thud of their hooves until they stopped at the top of the next hill and cried out with that piercing call of theirs, warning the other deer in the forests. There were wild boar trails, and pheasants thundering away and when spring came, warblers calling from the treetops. It was grand country.

And Paul had been together with Shizuka since nearly that first night they met at the "welcoming party". Well, actually, it was a week or so after that, after Shizuka had called Mrs. Kawai and asked for his telephone number.

Shizuka had been lonely for a long time and his coming into her life had made her happy almost to the point of feeling sick when she thought of it. And as for Paul, Shizuka took his mind off of the worries. A woman is wonderful for that. Sure, she brought with her her own set of problems: the requests to see musicals in the city, the constant photographs to document their trips together, the random and unexplained crying. But she was a fine girl and it seemed worth the few troubles to Paul.

She taught him many things about the country. He was amazed that a girl like her would be living in the mountain village there. There was something very forceful but still fragile about her. And he taught her many things, too - answered her many questions about his language, explained his odd (to her) sense of humor, taught her how to undo button-fly jeans...

In a way, he was living a fantasy. He'd come to this country to get away from his own. But he never felt comfortable explaining to people just why he'd done it.

So perhaps I should explain for him, since I know him better than he does himself. Perhaps I should. Or perhaps I shouldn't.

He'd been away for seven years in all. Sometimes people asked him about his life before. Sometimes they didn't see for several minutes that he preferred not to talk about it so much.

During these seven years in this country, he was living simply. He was getting by. In times of introspection, he felt a tinge of guilt, as if he was postponing the inevitable. This living in another country. This avoiding his own.

It was fear.

There were many things that Paul was not afraid of that other people feared. When he went camping alone he didn't fear bears or wolves or other wild animals. He never thought much about what might happen if he slipped and turned an ankle a day's hike out on a snowy camping trip. He didn't fear the cold, the elements, the darkness of night in the forest, nor the sounds that carried over the dead leaves those nights in the hills.

Paul didn't fear being alone. He didn't fear death.

But still it was there - the postponing. And the reason was fear. Or more precisely, dread.