The Night Is Short, Walk on Girl Read online

  Copyright

  The Night Is Short, Walk on Girl

  Tomihiko Morimi

  Translation by Emily Balistrieri

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  YORU WA MIJIKASHI ARUKEYO OTOME

  ©Tomihiko Morimi 2006

  First published in Japan in 2006 by KADOKAWA CORPORATION, Tokyo.

  English translation rights arranged with KADOKAWA CORPORATION, Tokyo through TUTTLE-MORI AGENCY, INC., Tokyo.

  English translation © 2019 by Yen Press, LLC

  Yen Press, LLC supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact the publisher. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Yen On

  150 West 30th Street, 19th Floor

  New York, NY 10001

  Visit us at yenpress.com • facebook.com/yenpress • twitter.com/yenpress • yenpress.tumblr.com • instagram.com/yenpress

  First Yen On Edition: August 2019

  Yen On is an imprint of Yen Press, LLC.

  The Yen On name and logo are trademarks of Yen Press, LLC.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Morimi, Tomihiko, 1979– author. | Balistrieri, Emily, translator.

  Title: The night is short, walk on girl / Tomihiko Morimi ; translation by Emily Balistrieri.

  Other titles: Yoru wa mijikashi arukeyo otome. English

  Description: First Yen On edition. | New York, NY : Yen On, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019007790 | ISBN 9781975383312 (hardcover)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PL873.O766 Y6713 2019 | DDC 895.63/6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019007790

  ISBNs: 978-1-9753-8331-2 (hardcover)

  978-1-9753-8332-9 (ebook)

  E3-20190627-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  The Night Is Short, Walk on Girl

  Chapter 2

  Deep Sea Fish

  Chapter 3

  Thus Spoke a Circumstantialist

  Chapter 4

  Cold of Evil, Cold of Passion

  Yen Newsletter

  This isn’t my story, but hers.

  In a world full of actors trying to cunningly maneuver themselves into the lead role, she was the star of that night without even trying. She didn’t realize it then, and she probably still hasn’t.

  This is a chronicle of her majestic journey through an alcohol-steeped night and my distress at failing to secure the lead role and making do with my existence as a pebble by the wayside.

  Wise readers, relish both her cuteness and my stupidity; savor the exquisite and subtle flavor of life, not unlike that of almond tofu.

  I hope you will cheer her on.

  Are you familiar with the “friendly punch”?

  When faced with the unavoidable necessity of delivering a fist to the cheek of someone nearby, people often curl their hand up tightly. I’d like you to take a close look at that fist. The thumb curls around the outside, acting as a latch, you might say, for the other four fingers. It’s precisely the thumb that makes a fist a fist, an instrument that can thoroughly obliterate both your opponent’s cheek and pride. But if history tells us anything, it’s that violence inevitably invites more violence: The hatred born of that thumb spreads like wildfire throughout the world. In the ensuing confusion and misery, we will flush every last one of the beautiful things worth protecting down the toilet.

  But let us stop for a moment and try uncurling the fist to rearrange it with the thumb on the inside and the other four fingers wrapped around it. What was once a rugged, manly fist now gives off the impression of terrible uncertainty and feels as lovable as the paw of a lucky cat. It’s too goofy to contain any semblance of heartfelt rage. Thus, the chain of violence is broken before it has a chance to begin, peace on earth is protected, and we manage, for a moment, to hold on to a bit of beauty.

  “If you hide your thumb inside, you can’t make a tight fist even if you want to. That quietly lurking thumb is love.”

  She’d been introduced to the friendly punch by her older sister when she was little. This is what her sister said:

  “Listen. A girl can’t go around with her fists up all the time, but there are only a few men of virtue in the whole wide world. The rest are scum, idiots, or scummy idiots. Sometimes we have to throw a punch even though we’d rather not. At times like that, use the friendly punch. A tightly balled fist might not contain love, but the friendly punch does. In fact, it’s full of love, and by making good use of it, you’ll move gracefully through the world, down the path to a beautiful, harmonious life.”

  A beautiful, harmonious life. How those words struck her heart!

  And that’s how she came to possess the esoteric art of the friendly punch.

  It was the end of May, just past the peak of spring.

  Akagawa, an earlier graduate of my university who’d been in the same club as me, was getting married and holding a celebration among friends. I’d barely ever talked to this guy, but he had been my senior at school, so I needed to show up. There were a couple others from the club who were going, and among them was this one girl. She knew Akagawa through a different club member.

  In the dark neighborhood down the Takase River from the Shijo and Kiyamachi intersection stands an old, wooden, three-story Western cuisine restaurant that casts a warm glow on the trees lining the bank.

  The restaurant usually gives off a toasty vibe, but inside it was even warmer. Actually, it was quite hot.

  All those in attendance were instantly burned to a crisp by the shameless passion of the newlyweds, who, having exchanged their vows, were being photographed while kissing, unafraid of any gods. The bride was scooped up in the groom’s arms.

  The groom worked at the Karasuma Oike branch of a bank, and the bride was a researcher at an alcoholic beverage company in Fushimi. They were both daring enough to ignore their parents’ wishes. The truth of the matter was their parents hadn’t even met. The couple had gotten to know each other during their first year of college. They had their ups and downs as they strove to be together, crossing plains, mountains, valleys, and so on. In the end, they reached their current state, one that others could barely stand to watch.

  That was already uninteresting enough, but only a weirdo could enjoy themselves at an event where they didn’t personally know the bride or groom. I killed time by eating the rest of the food on my plate and watching that one girl sitting at the corner of the table.

  She was staring with rapt attention at the snail shells collected cozily in one corner of her large plate. It wasn’t clear what she found so fascinating about them, but in any case, I was happy to watch her gaze at them.

  She was a younger member of the club, and I’d fallen in love with her at first sight, so to speak. That said, I hadn’t managed to have a friendly exchange with her just yet. I thought tonight might be a so-called opportunity, but due to the tactical blunder of failing
to secure the seat next to her, my plans were amounting to absolutely nothing.

  Suddenly, the MC stood up.

  “Okay, time for a word from the bride and groom, Naoko Todou and Yasuo Akagawa. Take it away, guys.”

  So the bride’s name was Naoko Todou? News to me.

  As the celebration at the restaurant drew to a close, the participants spilled out onto the street.

  Moving with the harmonious crew on their way to the after-party, I kept my eyes peeled for a red thread of destiny lying around to tie the girl and me together.

  Instead, I was disappointed to see her bid farewell to some of the others with a bow and walk off alone. It seemed she was heading home. In that case, there was no reason for me to get sucked into attending the after-party. I slipped out of the throng and made to follow her. Nothing slicker than Now, now, no need to go straight home, miss. How about a drink with me this fine evening? came to mind. I had no good lines to use. I simply walked after her.

  Outside the Hankyu Kawaramachi Station on Shijo and Kiyamachi, I saw a crowd mesmerized by a young guitarist, a group of men in black suits harassing any girls who went by, and countless rosy faces, young and old, in search of the next spot to visit.

  I thought we were turning onto Shijo Bridge, but after thinking for a moment, she continued walking north. The trees growing thickly along the Takase River made it quite dark, but farther along, a café called Muse radiated a warm, orange glow. As if to steel her resolve, the girl did something like a bipedal robot dance in front of the shop. Then, full of confidence, she turned down the alley.

  That’s where I lost her.

  What lay before me was a sketchy backstreet flanked on both sides by buildings and shops haloed in pink lights. I couldn’t see a sign of her anywhere. Men kept inviting me into the racy shops, so I had no choice but to leave the alley. The opportunity I thought I’d seized vanished before me.

  I was already making my exit from stage right as she began her journey through the night.

  Let’s have her tell it going forward.

  This is the story of one night, the first night I ever walked between Kiyamachi and Ponto-cho.

  It all started with the snail shells on my plate at a wedding reception in a Western cuisine restaurant on Kiyamachi. Staring at those swirls, I had an overpowering thought: I want to drink. Unfortunately, the connection between the snails and alcohol still evades me.

  But I was surrounded by older acquaintances that night, so it wouldn’t have been very proper to drink as much as I wanted. I would have had no way to apologize to my senior if I shamed him with some sort of commotion at his joyful wedding reception. With this in mind, I had been drinking only moderately, but soon I found myself unable to hold back any longer, so I excused myself before the after-party.

  That night, I thought I would like to enter the fascinating world of adults on my own. In other words, I wanted to drink exactly as I pleased without worrying about minding my manners.

  As I walked through the Shijo Kiyamachi neighborhood, there was a nonstop stream of good men and women indulging in nighttime amusements. They seemed so fascinatingly sophisticated! I felt for sure that in this neighborhood, drinks and a dazzling encounter with the adult world were waiting for me. Yes, indeed. Thrilled, I did a bipedal robot dance outside the café Muse.

  I chose a bar on Kiyamachi a friend had mentioned, Bar Moon Walk. It was a bar where you could drink all sorts of cocktails for only three hundred yen, a gift from God to people like me who can’t quite feel confident in the contents of their wallets.

  I love rum so much, I wish the Pacific Ocean were made of it.

  Of course, it’s fine to drain a bottle with a hand on your hip as though you’re chugging milk in the morning, but modesty shuts those little dreams in the treasure chest of my heart. It doesn’t seem possible to have a beautiful, harmonious life without that sort of casual moderation.

  Instead, I enjoy cocktails. Drinking cocktails is like picking out lovely jewels one at a time; it feels so luxurious. Acapulco, Cuba libre, piña colada. Of course, I like cocktails that aren’t made with rum, too, so I exchanged vows with all of them—to drink and get drunk on them. And I don’t want to stop at cocktails. My aim is always to take the initiative in making contact with all manner of alcohol.

  Thus, I was drinking without restraint at Moon Walk when an older man I didn’t recognize spoke to me from where he was seated at the corner of the bar.

  “Hey, sweetheart, is something worrying you? Sure seems like it.”

  I didn’t have anything to reply with immediately—because nothing was worrying me.

  When I remained silent, he said, “If there’s something on your mind, I wouldn’t mind if you lay it on mine.” I was impressed by his very clever turn of phrase.

  He said his name was Todou. Thin and lanky with a long face and stubble, he had a striking resemblance to an end of a cucumber that had been coated in iron filings. When Mr. Todou came closer, a sharp fragrance that must have been cologne assailed my nose, and the wild aroma he gave off naturally followed not long after in a shameless flood, mixing with the striking cologne to produce a nightmarish scent of high and low notes. I thought, Could it be that this complex, layered thing is the smell of an adult man? Is he one of those “attractive middle-aged men” people are always talking about?

  Mr. Todou smiled like a piece of crumpled straw paper.

  “Let me buy you a drink.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t.”

  “C’mon, you don’t have to be shy.”

  I declined once more, but it would’ve been impolite to reject his kindness out of hand. Not to mention, in our capitalist society, nothing is cheaper than free.

  Mr. Todou was watching me drink with great interest. If you’re going to look at me, it would be a much more delightful, fulfilling use of your time to watch a rice cooker. After all, I’m quite unrefined and far less interesting than one. Is there something funny about my face? I scratched at it discreetly.

  “Are you all on your own? Not out with a boy?”

  “I’m alone,” I said.

  Mr. Todou’s business was breeding and selling koi fish.

  “They were like swimming bundles of cash during the bubble, but…” He got a far-off look in his eyes. “Thinking about it now, it just seems like nonsense.”

  Mr. Todou was gazing at the spaces between the brightly colored bottles across the bar. Maybe he was thinking back on the glory days when his gorgeous koi fish leaped out of the aquaculture pond and transformed into stacks of bills. He nursed his whiskey.

  If you take the Keihan Uji Line from Chushojima, there’s a place called Rokujizo, where Mr. Todou invested a fortune to create the Todou Koi Fish Center. Ever since the wild days of the economic bubble solemnly came to a close, he and his koi, joined hand in fin, had been boldly riding the economic waves in and out. But this year, he was hit with a streak of troubles.

  He was tormented by a big-time gang of koi fish thieves, his savings to renovate his facilities had been stolen, and his beloved koi caught some mysterious disease that gave them strange blisters, making them look like sulky aliens.

  “What could it mean to have so much bad luck at once?”

  “That’s not even the end of it. Right when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it happened. And thanks to that, my business has come to a complete standstill, but even I laughed in spite of myself.”

  A few evenings ago, a tornado formed in the city of Uji.

  It proceeded from Fushimi-Momoyama Castle to Rokujizo without losing any momentum before heading rapidly toward Mr. Todou’s koi fish center. How horrible.

  Having gotten word of the situation, he hurried back from Kyoto Shinkin Bank, but wouldn’t you know it, the dark column stretching up into the heavens was already inside the fence! Breaking free from the arms of the young part-timer who tried to stop him, Mr. Todou went to confront the tornado head on.

  His shed blew away, and the water in the reservoi
r swelled with a roar.

  Just as blazing rays of the evening sun illuminated the area from the west, Mr. Todou’s precious koi flew up into the sky, their scales glittering as if to say, We promise to transform into magnificent dragons and return!

  He stood firm against the storm and called out each fish’s name—“Give Yuuko back! Give Jirokichi back!”—but the tornado paid his miserable cries no mind and sucked up every last one of his adorable fish.

  Because of that calamity, Mr. Todou found himself unable to pay off his debts and groping in the dark for his next move as he wandered the streets at night.

  “Give Yuuko back! Give Jirokichi back!” He repeated the cries in a wretched voice like a biting winter wind. He was so pitiful I began to feel sad myself.

  “You’re a nice girl,” he said, looking me in the face. “I’ve lived a long time and seen all sorts of people. I may look like a boring, dull old man to you, but even so, if there’s one skill I’ve sharpened, it’s my ability to judge people. I’m sure your parents are overjoyed to have a daughter like you. And I ain’t just saying that.”

  “I’m not worthy of your praise.”

  Then we said cheers.

  “You sure do drink, though. Are you going to be okay with that pace?”

  “If I take my time, it wears off.”

  “I see. Then I’ll teach you a place you can get tastier drinks.” He stood up. “Want to head to a different bar?”

  The two of us walked north along the Takase River. Mr. Todou was carrying a yellowish-green bundle with care, as if it was terribly important. The streets were lively with intoxicated university students, people on their way home from work, and who knows who else.

  Admiring the scene, he told me about a secret drink.

  It’s called “faux electric brandy.” What a weird name.

  “Electric brandy is a cocktail created by a respected old establishment in Tokyo’s Asakusa district, back during the Taisho period. There’s a bar in Shinkyogoku where you can drink it.”