“Bygones” - Miyabe Miyuki

They say a horde of ghosts live in this city. Even in death they harbor an attachment to  its streets; they yearn for everyday life in the city, for the chance to endure the confusion, noise, and clamor that goes along with the high prices, the crowded trains, and even the search for pleasure. The myriad souls, adrift, unable to leave these worldly desires, haunt their alleys between high rises and the station crowds.For better or for worse, I have yet to encounter any such ghosts. But I have encountered “the past.” If the souls of those who have not died can be called ghosts, then “the past” can be said to be the ghost of time that has not yet passed away, taking the form of a memory.

I met him by chance in a car on the Chūō line. It was a Thursday, a little past six o‟clock in the afternoon, and the inside of the train was packed, as always. Since it was the rainy season, the air in the car was already muggy and damp, and even though the air conditioning was working the passengers all smelled of sweat.

Usually, after leaving my office for the day, I take the train from Kanda Station.Today, however, because I happened to feel so inclined, I took a leisurely stroll, browsing the stalls in front of the used book stores before climbing the hill to Ochanomizu. This was purely on a whim, but that day was not the first time I‟d indulged it. I am a lazy reader, but I like to buy books. Among my purchases, therefore, are mixed in two kinds 25of works: technical books of the sort that are totally incomprehensible to the layman on a first reading and, conversely, picture books for the children.

I suppose it would be better to say that these miscellaneous tomes are the only sorts of books I prefer to collect.I have been told it is a peculiar hobby. On a previous excursion, I had found a \used book dealer specializing in children‟s books, and finding they had some books that struck my fancy, I bought an armload of them to carry back to the office. When I got back, the office girls psychoanalyzed me: “Deep down, Mr. Seta wants a child—that‟s why he buys these children‟s books.”

It‟s true that, despite our nearly twenty years of marriage, my wife and I have no children. There have been times when I‟ve felt some sadness over that. I think that those times, for my wife, were much longer than they were for me. Rather, in her case, I don‟t think they have ever passed. When, coming home, I told her the things the office ladies had been saying, she smiled bitterly and said, “Girls these days can be so cruel.” For a while after that, I tried not to buy any more picture books or fairy tales.As a result of today‟s meandering through the tenaciously sticky rain season precipitation, I had under my arm a technical book on the market development of fourth generation computers and a thin collection of essays entitled The Jōmon Horse Fossils: Excavations and Research Findings up to the Present Day. The title of the former I do not know, as it was a foreign book, and what I understand of the contents had been explained to me by a university student working in the bookstore part-time, who read the back cover.

With soaked umbrella in hand, I boarded the train, and was so absorbed in the unpleasantness of the humid atmosphere that I did not notice the ghost until around the 26time the train passed Iidabashi Station. His face stuck out a half head above the crowd, so naturally I caught sight of him.With one look,I was taken aback. It‟s not just a part of my job; I‟ve always been the kind of person to have a good memory for people‟s faces. I immediately thought this was a young man I‟d met before. When I say “met,” in my case, it something to do with work. But he wasn‟t someone from the recent past. If I were to see I was sharing the train car with someone I‟d met only a year or two ago, then before we‟d passed even one station the alarm system I have in my head would have sensed it and warned me to change cars before he became aware of my presence. It wasn‟t something that happened very often, but I had heard those mental alarms go off several times before.

Tokyo is not a small city, but it is overcrowded. And in my line of work, if you don‟t have an internal alarm system like mine, you can‟t do the job; it‟s that simple.There were less than two yards separating the young man and myself, and although there was a crowd of passengers between us, we were standing directly opposite each other, face to face. Our heights were about the same, and his eyes and mine seemed to meet. I looked down hastily.

Who could it be? I asked myself, and pretending to wipe the sweat from my forehead, stole another glance. He was standing by the door, staring vacantly out through the window wet with fine drops of rain and clouded by the humanity inside the car. He looked like a college student, though from what I could see of his face I couldn‟t tell if he was headed to a professor‟s office, or extra lessons, or a date with his girlfriend.

But like more than 80% of the passengers on the train running through the streets of Tokyo, he looked sleepy.27Soon the train arrived at Yotsuya Station. The crowd precariously maintaining their balance inside the car was jostled around by the stampede of passengers getting on and off the train. Even so, I never took my eyes off the young man. The door he was standing beside was open, and he pulled his body away from the people streaming in and, apparently standing on tiptoe, pushed his back against the handrail. Then, as if on some cue, he snorted, wrinkling up his nose—a childish mannerism out of character for someone his age. It was the sort of affectation you might see from an unskilled child actor cast as the brat in a television series.

That‟s right. I had seen that mannerism more than once, a long time before.His appearance had changed dramatically. The line of his jaw was about the same as it had been then, but all in all he looked stronger, more masculine. The profile of his nose stood out more sharply. His face was dark with stubble. That was different, too. So was the healthy tone of his skin. The frail figure I had known lingered faintly only in the shape of his eyes and the set of his mouth.

When I had met him he was still a child; he was short enough then that I had to look down to talk to him. Maybe that‟s why I didn‟t recognize him right away.As I covertly studied his face, the train pulled into Shinjuku Station. The young man, who had been leaning idly against the door, nimbly straightened up and led the way off the train. Spurred on by his ready agility, I followed him without thinking.It wasn‟t as though I had any objective in mind. But it had suddenly occurred to me that he might have left so quickly because he had noticed me and was trying to get away. That was the kind of relationship we‟d had—at least, from his perspective.28But actually, once we‟d left the platform, his stride was not particularly hurried. Mixing in with the crowd, he headed for the east exit. He took no notice of me. I was relieved, but I was also disappointed.Pushed and jostled by the crowd on the stairs, we walked toward the ticket gate, and in his retreating figure I saw his face as it looked in childhood. His face when I first met him….