Chapter 3 (1/2)
This is the third chapter of a story I am translating t.i.tled “House Ephemera” (蜉蝣の家) by Hatasu s.h.i.+kis.h.i.+ma (識島果).
Thanks to Sherayuki for helping proofread this chapter.
You can read the full j.a.panese text of this chapter .
See which contains a brief synopsis and links to other chapters (as they are posted).
As usual, whether I continue translating this will depend on feedback/views from various sources. If you like it, please consider leaving a comment here or vote for it on of things I should translate.
Chapter 3: The man who knew everything
Lo and behold, it wasn't long until my next encounter with the man.
That day, after searching through a large bookstore near the train station for a certain reference book unavailable at the college bookstore, I was about to head over to the section of modern j.a.panese books, as I often do. I was curious to see if there were any new publications that would interest me. He was in front of the bookshelf, right next to the section I was headed for. Just like that night, he stood motionless, wearing a neat long-sleeve s.h.i.+rt and that old Chesterfield coat.
I stopped there on the spot, reference book under my arm, and saw that he had also realized my presence. He gave me a slight bow that I returned clumsily. It had been evening when we first met, so it felt strange to see him during the day like this. He still had a clean-cut air about him, yet in the bookstore’s well-lit interior he looked like a typical, everyday foreigner searching for a book. To tell the truth, I even felt an inkling of disappointment. Even though our conversation that night had been comprised of only a few words, the strangely beautiful image of him framed by the backlight of the train remained etched deeply in my mind.
”Good day.”
I felt compelled to greet him as a matter of courtesy, especially after the awkward experience the other day of clinging to his arm and asking for his contact information.
”What might you be looking for?”
”I'm not searching for anything in particular.”
His answer was practically a whisper. There was something about his voice that reminded me of that day at the station. Something stirred deep within me.
”I have some time. If you don't mind, let's head over to a café.”
Shocked to receive such an offer from him, I could only nod. Despite the measure of disillusionment I'd felt, my interest in him was far from gone. There was no line at the cas.h.i.+er. He stood silently in wait as I hurried to check out.
The man and I were led to one of the innermost tables in the dim interior of the café, Miles Davis playing quietly in the background. I ordered an Earl Grey tea, he a coffee. There was something about the unusual situation of sitting across a table from someone whom I knew practically nothing about that excited me a little. He was likewise wordless but showed no sign of being nervous.
Without any real conversation to speak of, our drinks arrived. I poured warm milk into my tea and gave it a cursory stir. Suddenly I looked up, startled. Long, pale fingers raised his coffee cup. Amber eyes glowed faintly, gazing down onto the rippling surface of the jet-black liquid. To me, everything about this man was picturesque, like a true work of art. He seemed even more enigmatic in the dim lighting, projecting a mysterious charm. I got the sense that this faint, delicate thing he possessed-which I could only call an aura-would quickly shrivel up and die if left under the glaring sun.
After taking a sip of coffee, he introduced himself.
”Please call me Ricardo.”
”Of the famous Equivalence Theorem?”
He smiled when I instinctively blurted this out, memories of high school rus.h.i.+ng back. Ricardo. Judging from his name, I guessed he was British. The background music transitioned to Dave Brubeck's cla.s.sic song Take Five.
”Do you like books?”
When I asked him this, making reference to finding him in the bookstore, Ricardo nodded.
”The times have sure changed. Books are cheap.”
After saying this, he mumbled in an undertone, ”Because long ago they were quite expensive.”
”Oh really? I actually feel that lately book prices have been on the rise.”
”The other day, I read the book Kokoro,” he said suddenly, ignoring my comment.
”Isn't that by Natsume Sōseki?”
”Have you read it?”
”I read it once in middle or high school.”
”Indeed,” Ricardo said with a nod.
I didn't find this out until later, but he was in fact very well-read, if not extremely well-educated. We ended up meeting like this frequently, and without fail, I was amazed by the breadth of his knowledge. He was a philosopher, scientist, and an author of literature. On top of that, he was also well-versed in j.a.panese culture. Now that I think of it, his bow that day we met in the bookstore was indistinguishable from that of a j.a.panese person.
I'll tell you another story about him.
On a different day, when we were ordering drinks at the same café, all of a sudden a middle-aged man sitting nearby grasped his chest in agony. His coffee spilled and the waitress looked back over her shoulder to see what happened.
”Sir, are you alright?” the waitress said, voice raised and tense.
The man, teeth clenched tightly, answered with something approaching a groan.