called him yet.”
Don’t do it—all the optic fibers will disintegrate at the sound of your voice , Suzuki Midori thought as she asked, “Do you happen to know the young man’s name? We’re friends of poor Sugioka-kun’s mother—the boy who was murdered?—and she wants to put together a memorial album of his life.”
“Ishihara-san,” said the junior college girl, with a sparkle in her misaligned eyes.
III
Suzuki Midori riffled through her Louis Vuitton personal organizer. She found a blank page and with a pencil wrote the name in katakana:
“Do you know the kanji?” she asked. “ Ishi like ‘stone’ and hara like ‘field’? And if you could give me his phone number too—after all, we won’t be able to contact him if we don’t have his telephone number, isn’t that so?”
“I don’t know the kanji.”
The junior college girl twisted the corners of her lips in what was probably meant to be a mischievous smile. It was a smile like rotten eggs and mildewed cheese and poisonous toadstools. Suzuki Midori and Henmi Midori, receiving the full impact of this smile from a mere seventy centimeters away, felt their stomachs shrivel, along with two or three other internal organs, and a greasy sweat oozed from their temples.
“You see, girls of our generation, we write boys’ names in katakana, like you do for foreign words, instead of kanji, probably because a young man’s existence itself doesn’t mean much of anything anymore, so their names are just sounds that don’t have any meaning, like Toshi-chan or Fumiya or Jun or Takashi or Takeshi or Yoshihiko or Kazu or Tomo or Yuki or Akira or Yasushi or Keisuke or Kohji or Yohsuke or Satoshi or Tohru or Yuji or Potato or Jello or Cheeto or Tofu or Edamame or Monkeystoolmushroom or Bouillabaisse. I guess that’s just the way we girls of today are.”
From their temples, the drops of greasy sweat slid down the hair tucked behind their ears to the nape of the neck and around to the base of the throat, finally soaking into the silk of their blouses. This sweat seemed many times heavier—hundreds of times heavier—than the sort one produces when in a sauna or playing tennis, and it made a deep, rumbling sound as it rolled past their ears. Another five minutes face-to-face with her , Suzuki Midori thought, and I won’t even know who I am anymore . The girl wasn’t tremendously ugly or disgustingly unkempt or anything like that. It was just that vague asymmetry of her eyes and face that seemed to suck energy like a black hole.
“But, oh, the telephone number, it’s in the drawer of my desk, shall I go get it? Or—it’s only a small room, but would you like to come in? This is a women’s dormitory, of course, so there’s a strict rule against having men in your room, but there’s no problem whatsoever with having other women visit you, especially such elegant and sophisticated ladies as yourselves. You don’t look like cult members or anything, and a friend of mine who’s studying in London sent me some apple tea, and I’d love for you to try it.”
Before I’d sit sipping apple tea brewed by you, and looking at that face of yours , thought Suzuki Midori, I’d strip naked before a handsome young male friend and suck jam through my nose . “That’s very nice of you,” she said, “but we too, when we were in junior college, lived in women’s dormitories very much like this tranquil sanctuary of yours, and although there’s nothing we’d like better than to visit your room, it wouldn’t be right, really. After all, a women’s dormitory is one of the few truly sacred places left in this nation of ours!”
When the junior college girl nodded and trotted back to the dorm to retrieve Ishihara’s number, Henmi Midori’s head drooped, and she wobbled on her feet. Suzuki Midori lent her a supportive arm.
“Be strong,” she said. “If we fall down now, how will we ever avenge Wataa?”
“Yes. Yes, you’re right.” Henmi Midori
Don’t do it—all the optic fibers will disintegrate at the sound of your voice , Suzuki Midori thought as she asked, “Do you happen to know the young man’s name? We’re friends of poor Sugioka-kun’s mother—the boy who was murdered?—and she wants to put together a memorial album of his life.”
“Ishihara-san,” said the junior college girl, with a sparkle in her misaligned eyes.
III
Suzuki Midori riffled through her Louis Vuitton personal organizer. She found a blank page and with a pencil wrote the name in katakana:
“Do you know the kanji?” she asked. “ Ishi like ‘stone’ and hara like ‘field’? And if you could give me his phone number too—after all, we won’t be able to contact him if we don’t have his telephone number, isn’t that so?”
“I don’t know the kanji.”
The junior college girl twisted the corners of her lips in what was probably meant to be a mischievous smile. It was a smile like rotten eggs and mildewed cheese and poisonous toadstools. Suzuki Midori and Henmi Midori, receiving the full impact of this smile from a mere seventy centimeters away, felt their stomachs shrivel, along with two or three other internal organs, and a greasy sweat oozed from their temples.
“You see, girls of our generation, we write boys’ names in katakana, like you do for foreign words, instead of kanji, probably because a young man’s existence itself doesn’t mean much of anything anymore, so their names are just sounds that don’t have any meaning, like Toshi-chan or Fumiya or Jun or Takashi or Takeshi or Yoshihiko or Kazu or Tomo or Yuki or Akira or Yasushi or Keisuke or Kohji or Yohsuke or Satoshi or Tohru or Yuji or Potato or Jello or Cheeto or Tofu or Edamame or Monkeystoolmushroom or Bouillabaisse. I guess that’s just the way we girls of today are.”
From their temples, the drops of greasy sweat slid down the hair tucked behind their ears to the nape of the neck and around to the base of the throat, finally soaking into the silk of their blouses. This sweat seemed many times heavier—hundreds of times heavier—than the sort one produces when in a sauna or playing tennis, and it made a deep, rumbling sound as it rolled past their ears. Another five minutes face-to-face with her , Suzuki Midori thought, and I won’t even know who I am anymore . The girl wasn’t tremendously ugly or disgustingly unkempt or anything like that. It was just that vague asymmetry of her eyes and face that seemed to suck energy like a black hole.
“But, oh, the telephone number, it’s in the drawer of my desk, shall I go get it? Or—it’s only a small room, but would you like to come in? This is a women’s dormitory, of course, so there’s a strict rule against having men in your room, but there’s no problem whatsoever with having other women visit you, especially such elegant and sophisticated ladies as yourselves. You don’t look like cult members or anything, and a friend of mine who’s studying in London sent me some apple tea, and I’d love for you to try it.”
Before I’d sit sipping apple tea brewed by you, and looking at that face of yours , thought Suzuki Midori, I’d strip naked before a handsome young male friend and suck jam through my nose . “That’s very nice of you,” she said, “but we too, when we were in junior college, lived in women’s dormitories very much like this tranquil sanctuary of yours, and although there’s nothing we’d like better than to visit your room, it wouldn’t be right, really. After all, a women’s dormitory is one of the few truly sacred places left in this nation of ours!”
When the junior college girl nodded and trotted back to the dorm to retrieve Ishihara’s number, Henmi Midori’s head drooped, and she wobbled on her feet. Suzuki Midori lent her a supportive arm.
“Be strong,” she said. “If we fall down now, how will we ever avenge Wataa?”
“Yes. Yes, you’re right.” Henmi Midori
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