PART ONE
You were the one who told me about the town.
You were the one who told me about the town.
On that summer evening we were heading up the river, the sweet fragrance of grass wafting over us. We passed over several little weirs that held back the owing sand, stopping from time to time to gaze at the delicate silvery sh wriggling in the pools. We had both been barefoot for a while. The cold water washed over our ankles, while the ne sand at the bottom of the river enveloped our feet like the soft clouds in a dream. I was seventeen, and you were a year younger.
On that summer evening we were heading up the river, the sweet fragrance of grass wafting over us. We passed over several little weirs that held back the owing sand, stopping from time to time to gaze at the delicate silvery sh wriggling in the pools. We had both been barefoot for a while. The cold water washed over our ankles, while the ne sand at the bottom of the river enveloped our feet like the soft clouds in a dream. I was seventeen, and you were a year younger.
You’d stuck your at red sandals in your yellow plastic shoulder bag and were walking from one sandbank to the next, just ahead of me. Blades of grass were pasted to your wet calves, wonderful green punctuation marks. I was carrying my worn-out white sneakers, one in each hand.
You’d stuck your at red sandals in your yellow plastic shoulder bag and were walking from one sandbank to the next, just ahead of me. Blades of grass were pasted to your wet calves, wonderful green punctuation marks. I was carrying my worn-out white sneakers, one in each hand.
Perhaps tired of walking, you plunked yourself down on the summer grass, wordlessly gazing up at the sky. With a screech a pair of small birds ashed across the sky. In the silence that followed, a hint of bluish twilight began to entwine itself around us. As I sat down beside you, I had an odd feeling, as if thousands of invisible threads were nely tying your body to my heart. The minute movement of your eyelids and the slight utter of your lips were enough to stir my heart.
Perhaps tired of walking, you plunked yourself down on the summer grass, wordlessly gazing up at the sky. With a screech a pair of small birds ashed across the sky. In the silence that followed, a hint of bluish twilight began to entwine itself around us. As I sat down beside you, I had an odd feeling, as if thousands of invisible threads were nely tying your body to my heart. The minute movement of your eyelids and the slight utter of your lips were enough to stir my heart.
At that time neither you nor I had names. The radiant feelings of a seventeen-year-old and a sixteen-year-old on the grass of a riverbank, in the summer twilight, were the only things that mattered. Stars would soon be twinkling above us, and they had no names either. The two of us sat there, side by side, on the riverbank of a nameless world.
At that time neither you nor I had names. The radiant feelings of a seventeen-year-old and a sixteen-year-old on the grass of a riverbank, in the summer twilight, were the only things that mattered. Stars would soon be twinkling above us, and they had no names either. The two of us sat there, side by side, on the riverbank of a nameless world.
“There’s a high wall surrounding the whole town,” you began, drawing out the words from the deep silence, like a diver scouring the seabed for pearls. “It’s not that big a town, but it’s not small enough to absorb in a single glance either.”
“There’s a high wall surrounding the whole town,” you began, drawing out the words from the deep silence, like a diver scouring the seabed for pearls. “It’s not that big a town, but it’s not small enough to absorb in a single glance either.”
This was the second time you’d talked about the town. And now the town had a high wall around it.
This was the second time you’d talked about the town. And now the town had a high wall around it.
As you spoke, the town revealed a single lovely river and three stone bridges (the East Bridge, Old Bridge, and West Bridge), a library and a watchtower, an abandoned foundry and communal housing. In the faint light as twilight drew near, we sat shoulder to shoulder, gazing at that town. At times we were on a far-o hill, our eyes narrowed; at other times, the town was so close that we could reach out and touch it, with our eyes wide open.
As you spoke, the town revealed a single lovely river and three stone bridges (the East Bridge, Old Bridge, and West Bridge), a library and a watchtower, an abandoned foundry and communal housing. In the faint light as twilight drew near, we sat shoulder to shoulder, gazing at that town. At times we were on a far-o hill, our eyes narrowed; at other times, the town was so close that we could reach out and touch it, with our eyes wide open.
“The real me lives there, in that town surrounded by a wall,” you said.
“The real me lives there, in that town surrounded by a wall,” you said.
“So the you that is sitting here next to me isn’t the real you?” I had to ask.
“So the you that is sitting here next to me isn’t the real you?” I had to ask.
“That’s right. The me here with you now isn’t the real me. It’s only a stand-in. Like a wandering shadow.”
“That’s right. The me here with you now isn’t the real me. It’s only a stand-in. Like a wandering shadow.”
I thought it over. A wandering shadow? But I kept my opinions to myself.
I thought it over. A wandering shadow? But I kept my opinions to myself.
“Okay, so in that town what is the real you doing?”
“Okay, so in that town what is the real you doing?”
“Working in a library,” you replied in a quiet voice. “I work from around ve in the evening until around ten at night.”
“Working in a library,” you replied in a quiet voice. “I work from around ve in the evening until around ten at night.”
“Around?”
“Around?”
“All time there is approximate. There’s a tall clock tower in the square, but the clock doesn’t have any hands.”
“All time there is approximate. There’s a tall clock tower in the square, but the clock doesn’t have any hands.”
I pictured a clock tower without hands. “So can anyone come into that library?”
I pictured a clock tower without hands. “So can anyone come into that library?”
“No. Not everyone can enter. You need special quali cations to do that. But you can. Since you have those.”
“No. Not everyone can enter. You need special quali cations to do that. But you can. Since you have those.”
“What do you mean by . . . special quali cations?”
“What do you mean by . . . special quali cations?”
You smiled gently but didn’t answer the question.
You smiled gently but didn’t answer the question.
“So as long as I go there, I can meet the real you?”
“So as long as I go there, I can meet the real you?”
“As long as you can nd that town. And as long as— ”
“As long as you can nd that town. And as long as— ”
You fell silent, your cheeks reddening a bit. But I could understand the words that you didn’t say.
You fell silent, your cheeks reddening a bit. But I could understand the words that you didn’t say.
As long as you really are seeking the real me. These were the words you didn’t venture to say.
As long as you really are seeking the real me. These were the words you didn’t venture to say.
I gently wrapped an arm around you. You had on a light green
I gently wrapped an arm around you. You had on a light green
sleeveless dress. Your cheek rested against my shoulder. But on that twilit summer evening, the you I held wasn’t the real you. As you said, it was a mere stand-in, a shadow.
sleeveless dress. Your cheek rested against my shoulder. But on that twilit summer evening, the you I held wasn’t the real you. As you said, it was a mere stand-in, a shadow.
The real you was in a town surrounded by a high wall. In a town with willows on lovely sandbanks, with a few small hills, and quiet beasts each with a single horn. People lived in old communal housing, living plain but perfectly adequate lives. The beasts ate the leaves and nuts from the trees, though most of them passed away in the long, snowy winters, the cold and hunger overcoming them.
The real you was in a town surrounded by a high wall. In a town with willows on lovely sandbanks, with a few small hills, and quiet beasts each with a single horn. People lived in old communal housing, living plain but perfectly adequate lives. The beasts ate the leaves and nuts from the trees, though most of them passed away in the long, snowy winters, the cold and hunger overcoming them.
How I longed to go into the town. Longed to meet the real you.
How I longed to go into the town. Longed to meet the real you.
“The town is surrounded by a high wall so it’s very hard to enter,” you said. “And going out is even harder.”
“The town is surrounded by a high wall so it’s very hard to enter,” you said. “And going out is even harder.”
“So how can you go inside?”
“So how can you go inside?”
“You just need to your way in. But truly wishing for something, from the heart, isn’t that simple. It might take time. In the meanwhile, you might have to give up all sorts of things. Things that you treasure. But don’t give up, no matter how long it takes. The town isn’t going anywhere.”
“You just need to wish your way in. But truly wishing for something, from the heart, isn’t that simple. It might take time. In the meanwhile, you might have to give up all sorts of things. Things that you treasure. But don’t give up, no matter how long it takes. The town isn’t going anywhere.”
I imagined meeting the real you in that town. I pictured it all: the beautiful expanse of apple trees outside the town, the three stone bridges spanning the river, the cries of the invisible night birds. The small old library where the real you worked.
I imagined meeting the real you in that town. I pictured it all: the beautiful expanse of apple trees outside the town, the three stone bridges spanning the river, the cries of the invisible night birds. The small old library where the real you worked.
“There’s always a place ready for you there,” you said.
“There’s always a place ready for you there,” you said.
“A place for me?”
“A place for me?”
“Yes. There’s only one position open in the town. And you are to ll it.”
“Yes. There’s only one position open in the town. And you are to ll it.”
What position could that be?
What position could that be?
“You’ll become a Dream Reader,” you say in a low voice. As if revealing a crucial secret.
“You’ll become a Dream Reader,” you say in a low voice. As if revealing a crucial secret.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You know, I can’t even remember my own dreams. It would be hard for someone like that to become a Dream Reader.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You know, I can’t even remember my own dreams. It would be hard for someone like that to become a Dream Reader.”
“No, a Dream Reader doesn’t need to his own dreams. All you need to do is read all the old dreams collected on the shelves of the library.”
“No, a Dream Reader doesn’t need to have his own dreams. All you need to do is read all the old dreams collected on the shelves of the library.”
“Do you think I can?”
“Do you think I can?”
You nod. “Yes, you can do it. You have the quali cations. And the me that’s there will help you do the work. I’ll be right beside you, every night.”
You nod. “Yes, you can do it. You have the quali cations. And the me that’s there will help you do the work. I’ll be right beside you, every night.”
“So I’d be a Dream Reader, and every night I’d read old dreams on the shelves of the library. And you would always be with me. The real you,” I said, repeating aloud the facts given me.
Your bare, slender shoulders under the straps of the green dress trembled under my arm. And then sti ened.
“So I’d be a Dream Reader, and every night I’d read old dreams on the shelves of the library. And you would always be with me. The real you,” I said, repeating aloud the facts given me. Your bare, slender shoulders under the straps of the green dress trembled under my arm. And then sti ened.
“That’s right. But there’s one thing I want you to remember. That even if I do meet you in that town, I won’t remember anything about you.”
Why?
“That’s right. But there’s one thing I want you to remember. That even if I do meet you in that town, I won’t remember anything about you.”
Why?
“You really don’t know why?”
I know. The person whose shoulder my arm is gently around here is a mere stand-in. The real you lives in that town. That mysterious, far-o town surrounded by a high wall.
“You really don’t know why?” I know. The person whose shoulder my arm is gently around here is a mere stand-in. The real you lives in that town. That mysterious, far-o town surrounded by a high wall.
Your shoulder under my arm was so soft and warm that it was hard to think of it as anything other than that of the real you.
Your shoulder under my arm was so soft and warm that it was hard to think of it as anything other than that of the real you.
In this real world, you and I lived not so far from each other. Not far away, but not so close that we could drop by whenever we wanted. To get to your place took me an hour and a half, changing trains twice along the way. Neither of the towns we lived in was surrounded by a high wall, so of course we could come and go freely.
In this real world, you and I lived not so far from each other. Not far away, but not so close that we could drop by whenever we wanted. To get to your place took me an hour and a half, changing trains twice along the way. Neither of the towns we lived in was surrounded by a high wall, so of course we could come and go freely.
I lived in a quiet residential area near the sea, while you lived downtown in a much larger, livelier city. That summer I was in my third and nal year of high school, and you were in your second year. I went to a local public high school, and you attended a private girls’ school in your city. For various reasons, we couldn’t see each other more than once or twice a month. We’d take turns— I’d visit your town, then next time, you would come to the town where I lived. We’d walk to a small park near your home, or to a public botanical garden. The botanical garden charged an admissions fee, but next to the greenhouses was a nice little café that was never crowded and it became our favorite spot. We’d order co ee and apple tarts (a bit of a luxury for us) and lose ourselves in quiet conversation.
I lived in a quiet residential area near the sea, while you lived downtown in a much larger, livelier city. That summer I was in my third and nal year of high school, and you were in your second year. I went to a local public high school, and you attended a private girls’ school in your city. For various reasons, we couldn’t see each other more than once or twice a month. We’d take turns— I’d visit your town, then next time, you would come to the town where I lived. We’d walk to a small park near your home, or to a public botanical garden. The botanical garden charged an admissions fee, but next to the greenhouses was a nice little café that was never crowded and it became our favorite spot. We’d order co ee and apple tarts (a bit of a luxury for us) and lose ourselves in quiet conversation.
Whenever you came to my town, we’d walk along the riverside or the sea. There was no river near the downtown area where you lived, and no sea either, of course, and when you came to my town, it was the rst thing you wanted to see. You were drawn to all that natural water.
Whenever you came to my town, we’d walk along the riverside or the sea. There was no river near the downtown area where you lived, and no sea either, of course, and when you came to my town, it was the rst thing you wanted to see. You were drawn to all that natural water.
“Somehow seeing water always soothes me,” you said. “I love the sound it makes.”
“Somehow seeing water always soothes me,” you said. “I love the sound it makes.”
I’d met you the previous fall, and we had been going out for eight months. Whenever we saw each other, we’d nd some outof-the-way place to hug and kiss. We never went beyond that, though. We didn’t have enough time to spare, rst of all, nor a private place to take our relationship to the next level. But more than that, we were so wrapped up in talking that we were reluc-
I’d met you the previous fall, and we had been going out for eight months. Whenever we saw each other, we’d nd some outof-the-way place to hug and kiss. We never went beyond that, though. We didn’t have enough time to spare, rst of all, nor a private place to take our relationship to the next level. But more than that, we were so wrapped up in talking that we were reluc-
tant to take any time away from our conversations. Neither of us had ever met anyone we could talk to so freely about our feelings, our thoughts. It was close to a miracle to run across someone like that. So once or twice a month, we’d talk on and on, oblivious of the time. We never ran out of things to say, and when we said good-bye at the station, I always felt there was something else, something vital, that we’d forgotten to discuss.
tant to take any time away from our conversations. Neither of us had ever met anyone we could talk to so freely about our feelings, our thoughts. It was close to a miracle to run across someone like that. So once or twice a month, we’d talk on and on, oblivious of the time. We never ran out of things to say, and when we said good-bye at the station, I always felt there was something else, something vital, that we’d forgotten to discuss.
I’m not saying I didn’t have any physical desire for you. Take a healthy seventeen-year-old boy being with a sixteen-year-old girl whose chest was swelling out beautifully, and put his arms around her lithe young body— how could sexual desire not be part of the mix? But instinctively I knew it was better to put those feelings on hold. What I needed now was to see you once or twice a month, take long walks together, and open up to each other about all kinds of things. An intimate exchange of information, getting to know each other more deeply. Then, in the shade of a tree, hugging and kissing— this was so wonderful that I didn’t want to rush into anything else. If we did, something crucial about our relationship might be lost forever, something we might never regain. The physical could come later, down the road. That’s what I thought. Or maybe intuition told me.
I’m not saying I didn’t have any physical desire for you. Take a healthy seventeen-year-old boy being with a sixteen-year-old girl whose chest was swelling out beautifully, and put his arms around her lithe young body— how could sexual desire not be part of the mix? But instinctively I knew it was better to put those feelings on hold. What I needed now was to see you once or twice a month, take long walks together, and open up to each other about all kinds of things. An intimate exchange of information, getting to know each other more deeply. Then, in the shade of a tree, hugging and kissing— this was so wonderful that I didn’t want to rush into anything else. If we did, something crucial about our relationship might be lost forever, something we might never regain. The physical could come later, down the road. That’s what I thought. Or maybe intuition told me.
So what did we talk about, huddled together? I can’t remember now. We spoke of so many things that I can no longer recall each one. But I do know this— once you began talking about that odd town surrounded by a high wall, it became our main topic of conversation.
So what did we talk about, huddled together? I can’t remember now. We spoke of so many things that I can no longer recall each one. But I do know this— once you began talking about that odd town surrounded by a high wall, it became our main topic of conversation.
Mainly you talked about how the town was laid out. I would ask practical questions and you would answer them, and as we did, the details of the town began to form and were transcribed. You were the one who created the town. Or maybe it was there, inside you, already. But when it came to putting the pieces together so you could visualize it, so you could describe it in words, I do think I played a role as well. You talked about it, and I wrote it all down. Like ancient philosophers and religious gures who had a faithful, meticulous scribe, or disciples, per-
Mainly you talked about how the town was laid out. I would ask practical questions and you would answer them, and as we did, the details of the town began to form and were transcribed. You were the one who created the town. Or maybe it was there, inside you, already. But when it came to putting the pieces together so you could visualize it, so you could describe it in words, I do think I played a role as well. You talked about it, and I wrote it all down. Like ancient philosophers and religious gures who had a faithful, meticulous scribe, or disciples, per-
haps, at their side taking down their every word. I noted it all down in a special little notebook just for that purpose, the evercompetent secretary, or faithful disciple. That summer, the two of us were completely engrossed in this collaborative project of ours.
haps, at their side taking down their every word. I noted it all down in a special little notebook just for that purpose, the evercompetent secretary, or faithful disciple. That summer, the two of us were completely engrossed in this collaborative project of ours.
3
In autumn, in anticipation of the oncoming cold season, the beasts’ bodies were covered with a shiny, golden coat of fur. The single horns in their foreheads were sharp and white. They washed their hooves in the waters of the icy river, gently lifting their heads to enjoy the red nuts on the trees, and chew on the leaves of the Scotch broom.
In autumn, in anticipation of the oncoming cold season, the beasts’ bodies were covered with a shiny, golden coat of fur. The single horns in their foreheads were sharp and white. They washed their hooves in the waters of the icy river, gently lifting their heads to enjoy the red nuts on the trees, and chew on the leaves of the Scotch broom.
That was a lovely time of year.
That was a lovely time of year.
Standing on the watchtower built alongside the wall, I waited for the instrument—fashioned from a unicorn horn— to blow at twilight. Moments before the sun set the horn would sound— one long note, followed by three short ones. That was the rule. In the gathering dusk, the gentle sound of the horn slipped over the cobbled road, seemingly unchanged for over hundreds of years (or maybe even longer). And that sound had seeped into the gaps in the stone walls around the houses, and into the stone statues along the hedge in the plaza.
Standing on the watchtower built alongside the wall, I waited for the instrument—fashioned from a unicorn horn— to blow at twilight. Moments before the sun set the horn would sound— one long note, followed by three short ones. That was the rule. In the gathering dusk, the gentle sound of the horn slipped over the cobbled road, seemingly unchanged for over hundreds of years (or maybe even longer). And that sound had seeped into the gaps in the stone walls around the houses, and into the stone statues along the hedge in the plaza.
When the horn sounded out in the town, the beasts lifted their heads up toward ancient memories. Some stopped chewing leaves, some stopped pawing the road with their hooves, others awoke from naps in the last sunny spots of the day, all of them with heads raised at the same angle.
When the horn sounded out in the town, the beasts lifted their heads up toward ancient memories. Some stopped chewing leaves, some stopped pawing the road with their hooves, others awoke from naps in the last sunny spots of the day, all of them with heads raised at the same angle.
For a moment they all were frozen, like statues. Only their soft golden fur swayed in the breeze. But what were they gazing at? Their heads tilted in one direction, their eyes stared into space, but the beasts remained motionless, listening intently to the sounding of the horn.
For a moment they all were frozen, like statues. Only their soft golden fur swayed in the breeze. But what were they gazing at? Their heads tilted in one direction, their eyes stared into space, but the beasts remained motionless, listening intently to the sounding of the horn.
When the nal blow of the horn had faded away into the air, some scrambled to their feet, lining up their front legs, while others stretched and straightened up, and they all began walking at nearly the same moment. It was as if they had been released from a spell. Soon, the streets of the town clattered with the hooves of the beasts.
When the nal blow of the horn had faded away into the air, some scrambled to their feet, lining up their front legs, while others stretched and straightened up, and they all began walking at nearly the same moment. It was as if they had been released from a spell. Soon, the streets of the town clattered with the hooves of the beasts.
The line of beasts continued down the winding cobblestone street, with no obvious leader, with no one guiding them along.
The line of beasts continued down the winding cobblestone street, with no obvious leader, with no one guiding them along.
Eyes downcast, shoulders swaying slightly, they continued down to the silent river. Despite the silence, each beast was obviously connected by an undeniable bond.
Eyes downcast, shoulders swaying slightly, they continued down to the silent river. Despite the silence, each beast was obviously connected by an undeniable bond.
As I watched this scene many times, I came to understand how precisely they kept to the same path and speed. Picking up other beasts along the way, they continued over the arched Old Bridge, to the plaza with its sharp steeple (where the clock in the clock tower, as you had said, was missing both hands). A small group that had gone down to the sandbank by the river to eat green grass now joined them. They continued upstream on the path beside the river, through the factory district alongside the driedup canal that stretched out toward the north, and added another group that had been in the woods in search of nuts on trees. They next turned to the west, along the covered passageway of the foundry, climbing the long staircase traversing a hill on the north.
As I watched this scene many times, I came to understand how precisely they kept to the same path and speed. Picking up other beasts along the way, they continued over the arched Old Bridge, to the plaza with its sharp steeple (where the clock in the clock tower, as you had said, was missing both hands). A small group that had gone down to the sandbank by the river to eat green grass now joined them. They continued upstream on the path beside the river, through the factory district alongside the driedup canal that stretched out toward the north, and added another group that had been in the woods in search of nuts on trees. They next turned to the west, along the covered passageway of the foundry, climbing the long staircase traversing a hill on the north.
There was but one gate in the wall surrounding the town. Opening and closing it was the job of the Gatekeeper. The gate, heavy and solid, was reinforced with thick iron slabs nailed vertically and horizontally to it. Despite the gate’s formidable appearance, the Gatekeeper was able to easily open and close it. No one else was allowed to lay a nger on it.
There was but one gate in the wall surrounding the town. Opening and closing it was the job of the Gatekeeper. The gate, heavy and solid, was reinforced with thick iron slabs nailed vertically and horizontally to it. Despite the gate’s formidable appearance, the Gatekeeper was able to easily open and close it. No one else was allowed to lay a nger on it.
The Gatekeeper was a large, sturdy man, devoted to his work. His pointy head was shaved clean, as was his face. Every morning he’d boil water in a large cauldron and carefully shave his head and face with a large, sharp razor. His age was unclear. He was also responsible for blowing the horn every morning and evening to assemble the beasts. He would climb up a six-and-a-half-foottall tower in front of his Gatekeeper’s cabin, aim the horn at the sky, and blow. How could such a crude, coarse-looking man produce such a soft, charming sound? I found this strange every time I heard it.
The Gatekeeper was a large, sturdy man, devoted to his work. His pointy head was shaved clean, as was his face. Every morning he’d boil water in a large cauldron and carefully shave his head and face with a large, sharp razor. His age was unclear. He was also responsible for blowing the horn every morning and evening to assemble the beasts. He would climb up a six-and-a-half-foottall tower in front of his Gatekeeper’s cabin, aim the horn at the sky, and blow. How could such a crude, coarse-looking man produce such a soft, charming sound? I found this strange every time I heard it.
At twilight, once he’d shepherded every last beast outside the wall, he would close the heavy gate and lock it with a huge padlock. It clanged shut with a cold, metallic sound.
At twilight, once he’d shepherded every last beast outside the wall, he would close the heavy gate and lock it with a huge padlock. It clanged shut with a cold, metallic sound.
There was a place for the beasts just outside the north gate. There they would sleep, mate, give birth. This place had a forest and
There was a place for the beasts just outside the north gate. There they would sleep, mate, give birth. This place had a forest and
thickets, and a stream, and all of this, too, was walled in. It was a low wall, just a little over three feet, but for some reason the beasts couldn’t get over it. Or they didn’t try.
thickets, and a stream, and all of this, too, was walled in. It was a low wall, just a little over three feet, but for some reason the beasts couldn’t get over it. Or they didn’t try.
On either side of the gate, the wall had six watchtowers, with old, spiral wooden staircases that anyone could climb. From the top, you could see everything that the beasts were doing. But usually no one climbed the stairs. The residents of the town seemed to have little interest in the lives of the beasts.
On either side of the gate, the wall had six watchtowers, with old, spiral wooden staircases that anyone could climb. From the top, you could see everything that the beasts were doing. But usually no one climbed the stairs. The residents of the town seemed to have little interest in the lives of the beasts.
For one week in the beginning of spring, though, people would climb the watchtowers to see the beasts do battle. Then the beasts were unimaginably aggressive and wild, with the males forgoing food in a desperate ght to win over the females. They’d bellow, and aim their sharp, single horns at their opponents’ neck and stomach.
For one week in the beginning of spring, though, people would climb the watchtowers to see the beasts do battle. Then the beasts were unimaginably aggressive and wild, with the males forgoing food in a desperate ght to win over the females. They’d bellow, and aim their sharp, single horns at their opponents’ neck and stomach.
It was only during that one-week mating season that the beasts did not enter the town, since the Gatekeeper kept the gate tightly locked then to protect the townspeople from danger. (And consequently, no horn sounded in the morning and night.) More than a few of the beasts were gravely wounded in the ghts, some even dying from their injuries. And from the red blood that owed onto the ground sprung a new order and new life. Like new buds that appear all at once on green willow branches in spring.
It was only during that one-week mating season that the beasts did not enter the town, since the Gatekeeper kept the gate tightly locked then to protect the townspeople from danger. (And consequently, no horn sounded in the morning and night.) More than a few of the beasts were gravely wounded in the ghts, some even dying from their injuries. And from the red blood that owed onto the ground sprung a new order and new life. Like new buds that appear all at once on green willow branches in spring.
The beasts lived in a special cycle and order unknowable to us. Everything they did repeated in an orderly way, an order atoned for with their very blood. Once that violent week came to an end, when the gentle April rains washed away the blood, the beasts became tranquil, gentle creatures once more.
The beasts lived in a special cycle and order unknowable to us. Everything they did repeated in an orderly way, an order atoned for with their very blood. Once that violent week came to an end, when the gentle April rains washed away the blood, the beasts became tranquil, gentle creatures once more.
I’ve never witnessed that scene with my own eyes, however. I just heard about it from you.
I’ve never witnessed that scene with my own eyes, however. I just heard about it from you.
The beasts in autumn squatted down here and there, their golden fur glistening in the evening sun, silently awaiting the echoes of the horn to be absorbed into the air. There were probably at least a thousand beasts.
The beasts in autumn squatted down here and there, their golden fur glistening in the evening sun, silently awaiting the echoes of the horn to be absorbed into the air. There were probably at least a thousand beasts.
And so another day in the town drew to a close. The days passed, the seasons changed. Yet days and seasons are but temporary things. The real time of the town is found elsewhere.
And so another day in the town drew to a close. The days passed, the seasons changed. Yet days and seasons are but temporary things. The real time of the town is found elsewhere.
4
You and I never visited each other’s homes. We never met each other’s families, never introduced our friends. We didn’t want anyone in this world to bother us. We were satis ed with a world for just the two of us and didn’t want anyone else to be a part of our relationship. Practically speaking, too, we also had no time to spare. As I mentioned before, we had so many things to talk about, and only limited time to do so.
You and I never visited each other’s homes. We never met each other’s families, never introduced our friends. We didn’t want anyone in this world to bother us. We were satis ed with a world for just the two of us and didn’t want anyone else to be a part of our relationship. Practically speaking, too, we also had no time to spare. As I mentioned before, we had so many things to talk about, and only limited time to do so.
You said almost nothing about your own family. All I knew were a few small details. Your father had worked as a local public servant, but when you were eleven, through some misconduct on his part he was forced to resign and now worked in the o ce of a private cram school. What this misconduct was all about, I had no idea, but it seemed like something you didn’t want to talk about. Your birth mother had died of cancer when you were three, and you had almost no memories of her. You couldn’t even recall what she looked like. When you were ve your father remarried, and the next year your little sister was born. So your present mother was actually your stepmother, though once you happened to say something that suggested you felt a bit closer to your stepmother than to your father. A throwaway comment in tiny print in the corner of a book’s page. Regarding your half sister, who was six years younger, you said little, only, “She’s allergic to cat fur, so we don’t have any cats.” That’s all.
You said almost nothing about your own family. All I knew were a few small details. Your father had worked as a local public servant, but when you were eleven, through some misconduct on his part he was forced to resign and now worked in the o ce of a private cram school. What this misconduct was all about, I had no idea, but it seemed like something you didn’t want to talk about. Your birth mother had died of cancer when you were three, and you had almost no memories of her. You couldn’t even recall what she looked like. When you were ve your father remarried, and the next year your little sister was born. So your present mother was actually your stepmother, though once you happened to say something that suggested you felt a bit closer to your stepmother than to your father. A throwaway comment in tiny print in the corner of a book’s page. Regarding your half sister, who was six years younger, you said little, only, “She’s allergic to cat fur, so we don’t have any cats.” That’s all.
When you were a child, the only person you truly felt close to was your maternal grandmother. Whenever you had a chance, you’d take the train by yourself to your grandmother’s house in the neighboring ward. On school holidays you’d even stay over for a few days. Your grandmother loved you unconditionally and would even buy you little presents from her meager income. But every time you went to visit your grandmother, the expression on your stepmother’s face made it clear how dissatis ed she was, and though she never came out and said anything, you visited your
When you were a child, the only person you truly felt close to was your maternal grandmother. Whenever you had a chance, you’d take the train by yourself to your grandmother’s house in the neighboring ward. On school holidays you’d even stay over for a few days. Your grandmother loved you unconditionally and would even buy you little presents from her meager income. But every time you went to visit your grandmother, the expression on your stepmother’s face made it clear how dissatis ed she was, and though she never came out and said anything, you visited your
grandmother less and less. And several years ago, your grandmother suddenly passed away from heart disease.
grandmother less and less. And several years ago, your grandmother suddenly passed away from heart disease.
You explained these things to me in bits and pieces. Like nding a ragged item in an old coat pocket.
You explained these things to me in bits and pieces. Like nding a ragged item in an old coat pocket.
One other thing I remember clearly even now is that whenever you spoke about your family you stared, for some reason, at your palms. As if in order to follow the thread of the story, you needed to carefully decipher something written there.
One other thing I remember clearly even now is that whenever you spoke about your family you stared, for some reason, at your palms. As if in order to follow the thread of the story, you needed to carefully decipher something written there.
As for me, there was very little I felt I needed to tell you about my family. My parents were just your average, everyday kind of parents. My father worked in a pharmaceutical company, and my mother was a full-time housewife. They did things like ordinary, run-of-the-mill parents, and talked like ordinary, run-of-the-mill parents. We had a pet, an elderly black cat. There wasn’t anything notable about my life at school, either. My grades weren’t so bad, though not good enough that anyone would notice. The one place at school I could really feel relaxed in was the school library. I loved to read books there and to spend time daydreaming. Most of the books I wanted to read could be found there.
As for me, there was very little I felt I needed to tell you about my family. My parents were just your average, everyday kind of parents. My father worked in a pharmaceutical company, and my mother was a full-time housewife. They did things like ordinary, run-of-the-mill parents, and talked like ordinary, run-of-the-mill parents. We had a pet, an elderly black cat. There wasn’t anything notable about my life at school, either. My grades weren’t so bad, though not good enough that anyone would notice. The one place at school I could really feel relaxed in was the school library. I loved to read books there and to spend time daydreaming. Most of the books I wanted to read could be found there.
I clearly recall the day I rst met you. There was an awards ceremony for a high school essay contest. The top ve recipients were invited to the ceremony. I was in third place and you were in fourth, so we were seated beside each other. It was in the fall. I was in my second year of high school and you were in your rst. The ceremony was completely boring, so during the lulls, the two of us exchanged a few words in low voices. You wore a navy-blue blazer and a matching navy-blue pleated skirt. A white blouse with a ribbon, white socks, and black slip-on shoes. Your socks were pure white, your shiny shoes perfectly polished, like seven kindly dwarves had neatly bu ed them at dawn.
I clearly recall the day I rst met you. There was an awards ceremony for a high school essay contest. The top ve recipients were invited to the ceremony. I was in third place and you were in fourth, so we were seated beside each other. It was in the fall. I was in my second year of high school and you were in your rst. The ceremony was completely boring, so during the lulls, the two of us exchanged a few words in low voices. You wore a navy-blue blazer and a matching navy-blue pleated skirt. A white blouse with a ribbon, white socks, and black slip-on shoes. Your socks were pure white, your shiny shoes perfectly polished, like seven kindly dwarves had neatly bu ed them at dawn.
I wasn’t a great writer. I’d loved reading since I was a kid and would pick up a book whenever I had a spare moment, but I don’t think I had any literary talent. But all of us in Japanese class were forced to write an essay for the contest. And mine was chosen from all of these, sent to the selection committee, made it to the nals, and unexpectedly was awarded one of the top prizes. Hon-
I wasn’t a great writer. I’d loved reading since I was a kid and would pick up a book whenever I had a spare moment, but I don’t think I had any literary talent. But all of us in Japanese class were forced to write an essay for the contest. And mine was chosen from all of these, sent to the selection committee, made it to the nals, and unexpectedly was awarded one of the top prizes. Hon-
estly, I couldn’t fathom what was so good about what I’d written. When I reread it, it struck me as worthless, mediocre. But some of the judges thought it was worth a prize so it must have had something going for it. My teacher, a woman, was ecstatic that I got a prize. This was the rst time in my life that any teacher had been so pleased with anything I’d done. So I kept my opinions to myself and gratefully accepted the prize.
estly, I couldn’t fathom what was so good about what I’d written. When I reread it, it struck me as worthless, mediocre. But some of the judges thought it was worth a prize so it must have had something going for it. My teacher, a woman, was ecstatic that I got a prize. This was the rst time in my life that any teacher had been so pleased with anything I’d done. So I kept my opinions to myself and gratefully accepted the prize.
The essay contest was held every fall, district-wide, and each year they assigned a di erent theme. The theme that year was “My Friend.” We had to write ve pages by hand, and sadly I didn’t have a single friend I could write that much about, so I wrote about our family cat. I tried to convey how that old female cat and I got along, our life together, how we expressed our feelings to each other— though there were limits to this, of course. My cat was clever, with her own personality, and I had a lot of things to say about it. I guess there must have been a few cat lovers among the judges. People who love cats naturally like other cat lovers.
The essay contest was held every fall, district-wide, and each year they assigned a di erent theme. The theme that year was “My Friend.” We had to write ve pages by hand, and sadly I didn’t have a single friend I could write that much about, so I wrote about our family cat. I tried to convey how that old female cat and I got along, our life together, how we expressed our feelings to each other— though there were limits to this, of course. My cat was clever, with her own personality, and I had a lot of things to say about it. I guess there must have been a few cat lovers among the judges. People who love cats naturally like other cat lovers.
You wrote about your maternal grandmother. About the reciprocal feelings between a lonely elderly woman and a lonely young girl. And about the subtle, true values that arose from this relationship. The essay was charming and moving. A hundred times better than the one I wrote. I couldn’t understand why mine got third place, while yours got fourth. And I told you that honestly. You grinned and said you thought the opposite. What you wrote, you said, was so much better than mine. Really, you added. No lie.
You wrote about your maternal grandmother. About the reciprocal feelings between a lonely elderly woman and a lonely young girl. And about the subtle, true values that arose from this relationship. The essay was charming and moving. A hundred times better than the one I wrote. I couldn’t understand why mine got third place, while yours got fourth. And I told you that honestly. You grinned and said you thought the opposite. What you wrote, you said, was so much better than mine. Really, you added. No lie.
“Your family’s cat seems wonderful.”
“Your family’s cat seems wonderful.”
“Yep, she is very clever,” I said.
“Yep, she is very clever,” I said.
You smiled at that.
You smiled at that.
“Do you have a cat?” I asked.
“Do you have a cat?” I asked.
You shook your head. “My younger sister’s allergic to cat fur.”
You shook your head. “My younger sister’s allergic to cat fur.”
That was the rst tidbit of personal information I got about you. Her younger sister is allergic to cat fur.
That was the rst tidbit of personal information I got about you. Her younger sister is allergic to cat fur.
You were a beautiful young girl. To my eyes, at least. Petite, with a sort of roundish face and slim, lovely ngers. Your hair was short, with neatly trimmed black bangs on your forehead. Like careful, scrupulously drawn shading. Your nose was straight and small, your eyes quite large. By most standards, the balance
You were a beautiful young girl. To my eyes, at least. Petite, with a sort of roundish face and slim, lovely ngers. Your hair was short, with neatly trimmed black bangs on your forehead. Like careful, scrupulously drawn shading. Your nose was straight and small, your eyes quite large. By most standards, the balance
between the size of your nose and your eyes was o -kilter, but for some reason that imbalance attracted me. Your light pink lips were small and thin, always properly closed. As if some vital secrets were hidden deep inside.
between the size of your nose and your eyes was o -kilter, but for some reason that imbalance attracted me. Your light pink lips were small and thin, always properly closed. As if some vital secrets were hidden deep inside.
The ve of us award recipients climbed up onstage in order and were ceremoniously presented with certi cates and commemorative medals. The tall girl who won rst prize gave a short speech. We were also presented with fountain pens. (The fountain pen company sponsored the contest. The pen remained my favorite for years.)
The ve of us award recipients climbed up onstage in order and were ceremoniously presented with certi cates and commemorative medals. The tall girl who won rst prize gave a short speech. We were also presented with fountain pens. (The fountain pen company sponsored the contest. The pen remained my favorite for years.)
Just before the tedious, boring ceremony ended, I jotted down my name and address in my memo pad, ripped out the page, and surreptitiously passed it to you.
Just before the tedious, boring ceremony ended, I jotted down my name and address in my memo pad, ripped out the page, and surreptitiously passed it to you.
“I was hoping maybe you could write me a letter sometime?” I whispered, my voice dry.
“I was hoping maybe you could write me a letter sometime?” I whispered, my voice dry.
Normally I’d never be so bold. I was basically a shy person (and timid, too, of course). But the thought that we’d say goodbye there and never see each other again felt like a huge mistake, totally unfair. So I gathered my courage and plunged ahead.
Normally I’d never be so bold. I was basically a shy person (and timid, too, of course). But the thought that we’d say goodbye there and never see each other again felt like a huge mistake, totally unfair. So I gathered my courage and plunged ahead.
Looking a bit surprised, you took the piece of paper, folded it twice, and stowed it away in the breast pocket of your blazer. On top of the gentle, mysterious slope of your chest. You brought a hand to your bangs and blushed slightly.
Looking a bit surprised, you took the piece of paper, folded it twice, and stowed it away in the breast pocket of your blazer. On top of the gentle, mysterious slope of your chest. You brought a hand to your bangs and blushed slightly.
“I’d like to read more of what you write,” I said, sounding like someone giving an awkward excuse, after opening the wrong door.
“I’d like to read more of what you write,” I said, sounding like someone giving an awkward excuse, after opening the wrong door.
“I’d like to read the letters you write, too,” you said, nodding a few times. As if encouraging me.
“I’d like to read the letters you write, too,” you said, nodding a few times. As if encouraging me.
Your letter arrived a week later. It was amazing. I must have read it at least twenty times. Then I sat down at my desk and, using the pen I’d received as a prize, wrote a long reply. This is how we began writing to each other, and how our friendship began.
Your letter arrived a week later. It was amazing. I must have read it at least twenty times. Then I sat down at my desk and, using the pen I’d received as a prize, wrote a long reply. This is how we began writing to each other, and how our friendship began.
Were we boyfriend and girlfriend? Was it okay to easily label us that? I don’t know. But at least during that period, for nearly a year, our hearts were purely one, unsullied by anything beyond. And we went on to create and share a special, secret world of our own— a strange town surrounded by a high wall.
Were we boyfriend and girlfriend? Was it okay to easily label us that? I don’t know. But at least during that period, for nearly a year, our hearts were purely one, unsullied by anything beyond. And we went on to create and share a special, secret world of our own— a strange town surrounded by a high wall.
5
I first opened the door to that building three days after I came to the town, in the evening. The building was undistinguished, made from old stone. If you walked toward the east for a while, along the road that ran parallel to the river, past the central plaza that faced the Old Bridge, there it was. There was no sign at the entrance that identi ed it as the library. There was just a brass plate with the number 16 engraved on it, somewhat carelessly attached. The plate was discolored and hard to read.
I first opened the door to that building three days after I came to the town, in the evening.
The building was undistinguished, made from old stone. If you walked toward the east for a while, along the road that ran parallel to the river, past the central plaza that faced the Old Bridge, there it was. There was no sign at the entrance that identi ed it as the library. There was just a brass plate with the number 16 engraved on it, somewhat carelessly attached. The plate was discolored and hard to read.
The heavy wooden door creaked as it opened inward, where there was a dimly lit square room. No one was in sight. The ceiling was high, the lamps on the wall shone only a faint light, and the air gave o an odor like someone’s dried sweat. The dimness made everything seem a bit hazy, as though it had broken down into molecules and were about to be sucked away somewhere. The worn-down cedar oorboards creaked sharply here and there as I walked. There were two vertical windows, and not a single item of furniture.
The heavy wooden door creaked as it opened inward, where there was a dimly lit square room. No one was in sight. The ceiling was high, the lamps on the wall shone only a faint light, and the air gave o an odor like someone’s dried sweat. The dimness made everything seem a bit hazy, as though it had broken down into molecules and were about to be sucked away somewhere. The worn-down cedar oorboards creaked sharply here and there as I walked. There were two vertical windows, and not a single item of furniture.
At the far end of the room was a door. A simple wooden door, with a small, frosted glass window at eye level. The number 16 was written there, too, in old-fashioned, decorative script. There was a faint light that came through the glass. I knocked twice, lightly, on the door and waited, but there was no response, no sound of footsteps. I waited a beat, calmed my breathing, then turned the discolored brass knob and softly pushed the door open. The door squeaked, as if warning that someone had come.
Inside was another squarish room, about sixteen feet per side. The ceiling wasn’t as high as the rst room. And no one was there, either. There were no windows, just plaster walls. No paintings or photographs or posters or calendars, and, of course, no clock, just blank, smooth walls. There was one rough wooden bench, two small chairs, a table, and a wooden coatrack. With no coats hanging from it. In the middle of the room was a rusty old-fashioned
At the far end of the room was a door. A simple wooden door, with a small, frosted glass window at eye level. The number 16 was written there, too, in old-fashioned, decorative script. There was a faint light that came through the glass. I knocked twice, lightly, on the door and waited, but there was no response, no sound of footsteps. I waited a beat, calmed my breathing, then turned the discolored brass knob and softly pushed the door open. The door squeaked, as if warning that someone had come. Inside was another squarish room, about sixteen feet per side. The ceiling wasn’t as high as the rst room. And no one was there, either. There were no windows, just plaster walls. No paintings or photographs or posters or calendars, and, of course, no clock, just blank, smooth walls. There was one rough wooden bench, two small chairs, a table, and a wooden coatrack. With no coats hanging from it. In the middle of the room was a rusty old-fashioned
woodstove, a re burning inside, and a large black kettle sat on top pu ng out steam. In the rear of the room was what looked like a library checkout counter, with an open ledger. As if some urgent matter had called whoever it was away in the middle of work. No doubt before long that person (a library sta member, undoubtedly) would return.
woodstove, a re burning inside, and a large black kettle sat on top pu ng out steam. In the rear of the room was what looked like a library checkout counter, with an open ledger. As if some urgent matter had called whoever it was away in the middle of work. No doubt before long that person (a library sta member, undoubtedly) would return.
Behind the counter was a dark-colored door that must have led to the stacks. Which meant that, indeed, this was a library. Not a single book in sight, yet the overall appearance was very much that of a library. Big or small, old or new, libraries around the world all had that speci c look.
Behind the counter was a dark-colored door that must have led to the stacks. Which meant that, indeed, this was a library. Not a single book in sight, yet the overall appearance was very much that of a library. Big or small, old or new, libraries around the world all had that speci c look.
I took o my heavy coat, hung it on the coatrack, sat down on the hard wooden bench, and warmed my hands at the stove, waiting for someone to make an appearance. There was no sound whatever, only a silence, like being at the bottom of the sea. I tried clearing my throat once, but it didn’t sound like a throat clearing.
I took o my heavy coat, hung it on the coatrack, sat down on the hard wooden bench, and warmed my hands at the stove, waiting for someone to make an appearance. There was no sound whatever, only a silence, like being at the bottom of the sea. I tried clearing my throat once, but it didn’t sound like a throat clearing.
It was about fteen minutes later that you opened the door from the stacks and emerged. (Probably about that long. There wasn’t a clock, so I wasn’t sure of the exact time.) You looked over at me on the bench and sti ened for a second, taken aback, your eyes wide. You took a long, slow breath and then said, “Sorry to have kept you waiting. I had no idea that anyone had come.”
It was about fteen minutes later that you opened the door from the stacks and emerged. (Probably about that long. There wasn’t a clock, so I wasn’t sure of the exact time.) You looked over at me on the bench and sti ened for a second, taken aback, your eyes wide. You took a long, slow breath and then said, “Sorry to have kept you waiting. I had no idea that anyone had come.”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I kept quiet and just nodded a couple of times. Your voice didn’t sound like your voice. It was di erent from what I remembered. Or maybe every sound and voice in this room took on a di erent tone.
I didn’t know how to respond, so I kept quiet and just nodded a couple of times. Your voice didn’t sound like your voice. It was di erent from what I remembered. Or maybe every sound and voice in this room took on a di erent tone.
The lid of the kettle suddenly began rattling and trembled slightly, like an animal just waking up.
The lid of the kettle suddenly began rattling and trembled slightly, like an animal just waking up.
“And— how may I help you?” you asked.
What I’m after is old dreams.
“And— how may I help you?” you asked. What I’m after is old dreams.
“Old dreams, is it?” you said, your small, thin lips pressed in a straight line as you gazed at me. Naturally, you didn’t remember me.
“Old dreams, is it?” you said, your small, thin lips pressed in a straight line as you gazed at me. Naturally, you didn’t remember me.
“As you know, though,” you said, “only a Dream Reader is allowed to touch old dreams.”
“As you know, though,” you said, “only a Dream Reader is allowed to touch old dreams.”
I silently removed my thick green glasses, pushed up my eye-
I silently removed my thick green glasses, pushed up my eye-
lids, and showed you my eyes. Unmistakably the eyes of a Dream Reader. I couldn’t go outside in the bright light during the day.
lids, and showed you my eyes. Unmistakably the eyes of a Dream Reader. I couldn’t go outside in the bright light during the day.
“Alright. You are quali ed,” you said, and glanced down. My eyes probably disturbed you. But that’s the way it was. To enter the town, I had to have my eyes altered.
“Alright. You are quali ed,” you said, and glanced down. My eyes probably disturbed you. But that’s the way it was. To enter the town, I had to have my eyes altered.
“Will you start work today?” you asked.
“Will you start work today?” you asked.
I nodded. “I don’t know how well I’m able to read dreams, but I have to slowly get used to it.”
I nodded. “I don’t know how well I’m able to read dreams, but I have to slowly get used to it.”
Still there was not a sound in the room. The kettle, too, remained silent. You excused yourself and went back to writing in the ledger, and quickly nished up. I sat on the bench, watching you. Outwardly you hadn’t changed. You looked the same as you did back in that summer twilit evening. I remembered the bright red sandals you wore then. And the grasshopper that had suddenly buzzed from a nearby clump of grass.
Still there was not a sound in the room. The kettle, too, remained silent. You excused yourself and went back to writing in the ledger, and quickly nished up. I sat on the bench, watching you. Outwardly you hadn’t changed. You looked the same as you did back in that summer twilit evening. I remembered the bright red sandals you wore then. And the grasshopper that had suddenly buzzed from a nearby clump of grass.
“Haven’t I seen you before somewhere?” I had to ask, knowing it was pointless.
“Haven’t I seen you before somewhere?” I had to ask, knowing it was pointless.
You looked up from the ledger and gazed at me for a while, your pencil in your left hand. (That’s true—you’re left-handed. In this town, and in a town that isn’t this one.) You shook your head.
You looked up from the ledger and gazed at me for a while, your pencil in your left hand. (That’s true—you’re left-handed. In this town, and in a town that isn’t this one.) You shook your head.
“No, I don’t believe I’ve ever met you before,” you answered. I think you spoke so politely because, though you were still sixteen, I was no longer seventeen. For you I was now a grown man, far older than you. It couldn’t be helped, yet the passage of time pained me.
“No, I don’t believe I’ve ever met you before,” you answered. I think you spoke so politely because, though you were still sixteen, I was no longer seventeen. For you I was now a grown man, far older than you. It couldn’t be helped, yet the passage of time pained me.
You nished recording your work in the ledger, shut it, stowed it away on the shelf behind you, and began to make some herbal tea especially for me. You picked up the kettle on the stove and carefully mixed the hot water and the crushed herbs, making thick, greenish tea. You poured this into a largish ceramic cup and placed it before me. This was a special drink made for a Dream Reader, and preparing it was one of your tasks.
You nished recording your work in the ledger, shut it, stowed it away on the shelf behind you, and began to make some herbal tea especially for me. You picked up the kettle on the stove and carefully mixed the hot water and the crushed herbs, making thick, greenish tea. You poured this into a largish ceramic cup and placed it before me. This was a special drink made for a Dream Reader, and preparing it was one of your tasks.
I slowly sipped the herbal tea. It had a thick, distinctively bitter taste and wasn’t easy to get down. But the nutrients in it would heal my wounded eyes and calm me. A special drink for those purposes. You watched me from behind your desk. You must have
I slowly sipped the herbal tea. It had a thick, distinctively bitter taste and wasn’t easy to get down. But the nutrients in it would heal my wounded eyes and calm me. A special drink for those purposes. You watched me from behind your desk. You must have
been concerned whether I’d like the herbal tea you’d made for me. I looked at you and gave a small nod of approval. To say, It’s ne. And a smile of relief came over you. I’d missed that smile so very much. I hadn’t seen it in a long while. The room was warm and still. Even without a clock, time soundlessly passed. Like a slender cat stealthily making its way along the top of a wall.
been concerned whether I’d like the herbal tea you’d made for me. I looked at you and gave a small nod of approval. To say, It’s ne. And a smile of relief came over you. I’d missed that smile so very much. I hadn’t seen it in a long while. The room was warm and still. Even without a clock, time soundlessly passed. Like a slender cat stealthily making its way along the top of a wall.
We didn’t exchange letters all that often. About once every two weeks or so. Yet each one was lengthy. The letters you wrote were generally longer than mine. Not that the length mattered.
We didn’t exchange letters all that often. About once every two weeks or so. Yet each one was lengthy. The letters you wrote were generally longer than mine. Not that the length mattered.
I still have every letter you wrote, but I didn’t make copies of the ones I sent, so I can’t recall exactly what I wrote. Nothing earthshattering, I’m sure. Just daily life and little things that took place. I wrote about books I’d read, music I’d listened to, movies I’d seen. I wrote about things that took place at school, too. I was on the swim team (circumstances beyond my control made me join, and I wasn’t at all what you would call an eager member), and I think I wrote about our practices. When I knew you were the one reading it, the words just owed. It was strange how natural it felt to open up about my thoughts, my feelings. It was the rst time in my life I could write like that, the words gushing out. As I said, I’d always thought that writing wasn’t my forte. You’re the one who drew out that hidden ability in me. You always enjoyed the scraps of humor in my writing. That’s what was missing most from my life, you told me.
I still have every letter you wrote, but I didn’t make copies of the ones I sent, so I can’t recall exactly what I wrote. Nothing earthshattering, I’m sure. Just daily life and little things that took place. I wrote about books I’d read, music I’d listened to, movies I’d seen. I wrote about things that took place at school, too. I was on the swim team (circumstances beyond my control made me join, and I wasn’t at all what you would call an eager member), and I think I wrote about our practices. When I knew you were the one reading it, the words just owed. It was strange how natural it felt to open up about my thoughts, my feelings. It was the rst time in my life I could write like that, the words gushing out. As I said, I’d always thought that writing wasn’t my forte. You’re the one who drew out that hidden ability in me. You always enjoyed the scraps of humor in my writing. That’s what was missing most from my life, you told me.
“Like a vitamin or something?” I asked.
“Like a vitamin or something?” I asked.
“Like a vitamin or something,” you said, nodding hard.
“Like a vitamin or something,” you said, nodding hard.
I was so taken by you, I thought of nothing else when awake. You haunted my dreams, as well. In my letters, though, I tried to that in check, not opening up about my feelings. I con ned myself to actual, tangible things. Back then I wanted to cling to a tangible world, things I could actually touch—with a bit of humor thrown in, if I could. If I wrote about the inner workings of my heart— about a ection or love— I felt like I’d be driven into a dead end.
I was so taken by you, I thought of nothing else when awake. You haunted my dreams, as well. In my letters, though, I tried to keep that in check, not opening up about my feelings. I con ned myself to actual, tangible things. Back then I wanted to cling to a tangible world, things I could actually touch—with a bit of humor thrown in, if I could. If I wrote about the inner workings of my heart— about a ection or love— I felt like I’d be driven into a dead end.
Your letters took the opposite approach and were less about actual things around you and more about your inner life. Or dreams you had, or short ctional pieces. What’s stayed with me most
Your letters took the opposite approach and were less about actual things around you and more about your inner life. Or dreams you had, or short ctional pieces. What’s stayed with me most
were several dreams you described. You often had long, involved dreams, and could clearly recall the details, as if remembering actual events. I found this incredible. I hardly ever dreamed, and even when I did, the content eluded me, my dreams falling to pieces, scattering the moment I woke up. Even if a particularly vivid dream made me bolt awake in the middle of the night (not that this happened much), I’d fall asleep again right away and, come morning, couldn’t remember a thing.
were several dreams you described. You often had long, involved dreams, and could clearly recall the details, as if remembering actual events. I found this incredible. I hardly ever dreamed, and even when I did, the content eluded me, my dreams falling to pieces, scattering the moment I woke up. Even if a particularly vivid dream made me bolt awake in the middle of the night (not that this happened much), I’d fall asleep again right away and, come morning, couldn’t remember a thing.
When I told you this you said, “I keep a notebook and pencil at my bedside, and as soon as I wake up, I write down my dreams. Even when I’m busy and pressed for time. When I have really intense dreams in the middle of the night and wake up, I ght the urge to fall asleep and instead I write them down in as much detail as I can. Since most of those are really important dreams and teach me a lot of important things.”
When I told you this you said, “I keep a notebook and pencil at my bedside, and as soon as I wake up, I write down my dreams. Even when I’m busy and pressed for time. When I have really intense dreams in the middle of the night and wake up, I ght the urge to fall asleep and instead I write them down in as much detail as I can. Since most of those are really important dreams and teach me a lot of important things.”
“A lot of important things?” I asked.
“A lot of important things?” I asked.
“About the me I don’t know about,” you replied.
“About the me I don’t know about,” you replied.
For you, dreams were almost on the same level as events in the real world, not something that you’d easily forget or something that would vanish so easily. Dreams were like a crucial water source nurturing your heart, conveying something vital.
For you, dreams were almost on the same level as events in the real world, not something that you’d easily forget or something that would vanish so easily. Dreams were like a crucial water source nurturing your heart, conveying something vital.
“It takes practice. If you put in the e ort, you should be able to recall your dreams, too, down to the details. You should give it a try. I really want to know what kind of dreams you have.”
“It takes practice. If you put in the e ort, you should be able to recall your dreams, too, down to the details. You should give it a try. I really want to know what kind of dreams you have.”
Okay, I said. I’ll give it a go.
Okay, I said. I’ll give it a go.
Despite my e orts (though I didn’t go so far as keeping a pencil and notebook next to my bed), I couldn’t work up any interest in my dreams. They were all so vague and incoherent, too hard to fathom. The words spoken there were unclear, the scenes incoherent. And sometimes the content was ominous, nothing I could tell anyone else. I much preferred hearing about your long, colorful dreams.
Despite my e orts (though I didn’t go so far as keeping a pencil and notebook next to my bed), I couldn’t work up any interest in my dreams. They were all so vague and incoherent, too hard to fathom. The words spoken there were unclear, the scenes incoherent. And sometimes the content was ominous, nothing I could tell anyone else. I much preferred hearing about your long, colorful dreams.
You said I sometimes appeared in your dreams. That made me happy, to think I could be a part of your inner world. And it seemed to please you, too, that I’d be in your dreams. Most of the time, though, I didn’t play a major role, but was more like a supporting character in a drama.
You said I sometimes appeared in your dreams. That made me happy, to think I could be a part of your inner world. And it seemed to please you, too, that I’d be in your dreams. Most of the time, though, I didn’t play a major role, but was more like a supporting character in a drama.
Did you ever have the kind of explicit dreams I did? Ones you’d nd hard to talk about in front of me, the kind I often had (where I’d wind up soiling my underwear)? Were you totally open and honest with me about your dreams? As I listened to you talk about them, I wondered.
Did you ever have the kind of explicit dreams I did? Ones you’d nd hard to talk about in front of me, the kind I often had (where I’d wind up soiling my underwear)? Were you totally open and honest with me about your dreams? As I listened to you talk about them, I wondered.
You seemed to always talk very openly about all kinds of things. But no one knows for sure, actually. I think everyone in the world has secrets. They’re necessary for people to survive in this world. Wouldn’t you agree?
You seemed to always talk very openly about all kinds of things. But no one knows for sure, actually. I think everyone in the world has secrets. They’re necessary for people to survive in this world. Wouldn’t you agree?
“If there’s anything perfect in this world, it would be this wall. No one can climb over it. And no one can destroy it,” the Gatekeeper declared.
“If there’s anything perfect in this world, it would be this wall. No one can climb over it. And no one can destroy it,” the Gatekeeper declared.
At rst glance the wall just looked like some old brick structure that could easily topple over in the next strong storm or earthquake. Perfect? How can you say that? When I voiced my concern, the Gatekeeper reacted like I’d just insulted his family. He grabbed me by the elbow and dragged me over to the wall.
At rst glance the wall just looked like some old brick structure that could easily topple over in the next strong storm or earthquake. Perfect? How can you say that? When I voiced my concern, the Gatekeeper reacted like I’d just insulted his family. He grabbed me by the elbow and dragged me over to the wall.
“Look at it up close. There are no joints between the bricks. And each brick is shaped slightly di erently from the others. Yet they t together so perfectly, you couldn’t get a single hair between them.”
“Look at it up close. There are no joints between the bricks. And each brick is shaped slightly di erently from the others. Yet they t together so perfectly, you couldn’t get a single hair between them.”
And he was right.
And he was right.
“Try scratching a brick with this knife.” The Gatekeeper took out a work knife from his coat pocket, snapped open the blade with a click, and passed it to me. The knife looked old, but the blade had been meticulously sharpened. “You won’t be able to scratch it at all.”
“Try scratching a brick with this knife.” The Gatekeeper took out a work knife from his coat pocket, snapped open the blade with a click, and passed it to me. The knife looked old, but the blade had been meticulously sharpened. “You won’t be able to scratch it at all.”
And he was right. The tip of the knife made a dry scratching sound, but didn’t make a single white line on the brick.
And he was right. The tip of the knife made a dry scratching sound, but didn’t make a single white line on the brick.
“You see? Storms and earthquakes and cannons— nothing can wreck this wall. Or even damage it. Nothing has up until now, and nothing ever will.”
“You see? Storms and earthquakes and cannons— nothing can wreck this wall. Or even damage it. Nothing has up until now, and nothing ever will.”
As if posing for a commemorative photo, he rested a palm against the wall, tucked his chin in, and gazed proudly at me.
As if posing for a commemorative photo, he rested a palm against the wall, tucked his chin in, and gazed proudly at me.
No, I said silently to myself, there’s nothing in this world that’s perfect. If it has shape and form, it’s got to have a weak point, a blind spot. But I didn’t say this out loud.
No, I said silently to myself, there’s nothing in this world that’s perfect. If it has shape and form, it’s got to have a weak point, a blind spot. But I didn’t say this out loud.
“Who made this wall?” I asked.
“Who made this wall?” I asked.
“Nobody made it,” said the Gatekeeper, with unshakable conviction. “It was always here, from the very beginning.”
“Nobody made it,” said the Gatekeeper, with unshakable conviction. “It was always here, from the very beginning.”
•
At the end of the rst week, I picked up several of the old dreams you’d selected and tried reading them. But I couldn’t decipher a single intelligible thing. All I heard was an uncertain murmuring. And all I saw were a few unfocused, fragmentary images, like snippets of tape or lm randomly spliced together and played backward.
At the end of the rst week, I picked up several of the old dreams you’d selected and tried reading them. But I couldn’t decipher a single intelligible thing. All I heard was an uncertain murmuring. And all I saw were a few unfocused, fragmentary images, like snippets of tape or lm randomly spliced together and played backward.
Instead of books, the stacks in the library were full of countless old dreams. Covered with a thin layer of white dust, none of them seemed to have been touched for ages. The old dreams were egg shaped, in all di erent sizes and colors, like eggs laid by a variety of animals. Not exactly egg shaped, actually. When I took them in my hand and examined them closely, I saw that the bottom half swelled out more than the top half. The balance, too, was o . But because of this imbalance, they could sit on the shelves without toppling over.
Instead of books, the stacks in the library were full of countless old dreams. Covered with a thin layer of white dust, none of them seemed to have been touched for ages. The old dreams were egg shaped, in all di erent sizes and colors, like eggs laid by a variety of animals. Not exactly egg shaped, actually. When I took them in my hand and examined them closely, I saw that the bottom half swelled out more than the top half. The balance, too, was o . But because of this imbalance, they could sit on the shelves without toppling over.
The surface was hard as marble, and quite smooth. Yet it wasn’t heavy. I had no idea what material it was made out of, or how strong it was. If one fell to the oor, would it break? At any rate, they had to be treated delicately, like the eggs of some rare creature.
The surface was hard as marble, and quite smooth. Yet it wasn’t heavy. I had no idea what material it was made out of, or how strong it was. If one fell to the oor, would it break? At any rate, they had to be treated delicately, like the eggs of some rare creature.
There wasn’t a single book in the library— not a single volume. In the past there must have been books everywhere, along with people who came to learn and enjoy them. Just as you’d nd in any ordinary town library. There was still a faint scent of that atmosphere lingering over the place. Yet at some point all the books on the shelves had been removed, replaced by old dreams. There didn’t seem to be any Dream Readers other than myself. At least at the present, I appeared to be the only one in town. Had there been another Dream Reader before me? Perhaps. Given all the detailed rules and procedures they had in place, and how diligently they were followed, I imagine I wasn’t the rst.
There wasn’t a single book in the library— not a single volume. In the past there must have been books everywhere, along with people who came to learn and enjoy them. Just as you’d nd in any ordinary town library. There was still a faint scent of that atmosphere lingering over the place. Yet at some point all the books on the shelves had been removed, replaced by old dreams. There didn’t seem to be any Dream Readers other than myself. At least at the present, I appeared to be the only one in town. Had there been another Dream Reader before me? Perhaps. Given all the detailed rules and procedures they had in place, and how diligently they were followed, I imagine I wasn’t the rst.
Your duties at the library included protecting the old dreams lined up there and managing them. You chose the dreams that should be read and noted them down in the ledger after reading. Just before evening, you opened the door to the library, lit the lamps, and, in the cold season, lit a re in the stove. To do so, you
Your duties at the library included protecting the old dreams lined up there and managing them. You chose the dreams that should be read and noted them down in the ledger after reading. Just before evening, you opened the door to the library, lit the lamps, and, in the cold season, lit a re in the stove. To do so, you
had to make sure you didn’t run out of canola oil for the lamps or rewood for the stove. And you made a thick green herbal tea for the Dream Reader—for me, in other words. A calming tea that would help heal my eyes and soothe me.
had to make sure you didn’t run out of canola oil for the lamps or rewood for the stove. And you made a thick green herbal tea for the Dream Reader—for me, in other words. A calming tea that would help heal my eyes and soothe me.
Using a large white cloth, you would carefully wipe away the white dust that had accumulated on an old dream, and then place it on the desk in front of me. I would remove my green-tinted glasses and rest both hands on the surface of the old dream. I’d enclose it in my hands, and, in about ve minutes, the old dream would awaken from its deep slumber and its surface would glow faintly. And a natural, pleasant warmth would seep into both my palms. Then the dreams would begin to spin their way into me, hesitantly, at rst, like a silkworm emitting a thread, then with more enthusiasm. They had something they needed to relate. I imagined how they’d been patiently waiting on their shelves for the time when they would emerge from their shells.
Using a large white cloth, you would carefully wipe away the white dust that had accumulated on an old dream, and then place it on the desk in front of me. I would remove my green-tinted glasses and rest both hands on the surface of the old dream. I’d enclose it in my hands, and, in about ve minutes, the old dream would awaken from its deep slumber and its surface would glow faintly. And a natural, pleasant warmth would seep into both my palms. Then the dreams would begin to spin their way into me, hesitantly, at rst, like a silkworm emitting a thread, then with more enthusiasm. They had something they needed to relate. I imagined how they’d been patiently waiting on their shelves for the time when they would emerge from their shells.
But the voice they spoke in was so subdued that I couldn’t catch many words. The outlines of the images they projected were incomplete, and would grow dim and fade away, sucked up into the air. This was probably not their fault, but mine— perhaps my new eyes were not functioning properly. My ability to understand was still a work in progress.
But the voice they spoke in was so subdued that I couldn’t catch many words. The outlines of the images they projected were incomplete, and would grow dim and fade away, sucked up into the air. This was probably not their fault, but mine— perhaps my new eyes were not functioning properly. My ability to understand was still a work in progress.
And then the time would come to close the library. There was no clock anywhere, but you always knew when the time was drawing near.
And then the time would come to close the library. There was no clock anywhere, but you always knew when the time was drawing near.
“How was it? Did your work go well?”
“How was it? Did your work go well?”
“Not bad,” I replied. “But it’s so tiring to read even one dream. Maybe I’m doing it wrong.”
“Not bad,” I replied. “But it’s so tiring to read even one dream. Maybe I’m doing it wrong.”
“No need to worry,” you said, turning o the air vent on the stove. You had blown out the lamps one by one and were seated across the table from me, looking straight at me. (Your gaze made my heart pound.) “There’s no need to rush things. Here we take as much time as we need.”
“No need to worry,” you said, turning o the air vent on the stove. You had blown out the lamps one by one and were seated across the table from me, looking straight at me. (Your gaze made my heart pound.) “There’s no need to rush things. Here we take as much time as we need.”
You followed each step precisely as you closed the library. A serious look in your eyes, unhurried, composed. The order of those
You followed each step precisely as you closed the library. A serious look in your eyes, unhurried, composed. The order of those
steps never varied. As I watched you work, I wondered if it was really necessary to be so strict about locking up the library. In this quiet, calm town, who in the world was going to break into the library in the middle of the night to steal or destroy old dreams?
steps never varied. As I watched you work, I wondered if it was really necessary to be so strict about locking up the library. In this quiet, calm town, who in the world was going to break into the library in the middle of the night to steal or destroy old dreams?
“Do you mind if I see you home?” I ventured to ask, on the night of the third day, as we emerged from the building.
“Do you mind if I see you home?” I ventured to ask, on the night of the third day, as we emerged from the building.
You turned around and looked at me, your dark eyes wide, re ecting a single white star in the sky. You looked unsure what my o er meant. Why do I need you to see me home? you seemed to be wondering.
You turned around and looked at me, your dark eyes wide, re ecting a single white star in the sky. You looked unsure what my o er meant. Why do I need you to see me home? you seemed to be wondering.
“I’ve just arrived in town, and you’re the only one I can talk to,” I explained. “If I can, I’d like to walk with someone, and talk with them. And I want to know more about you.”
“I’ve just arrived in town, and you’re the only one I can talk to,” I explained. “If I can, I’d like to walk with someone, and talk with them. And I want to know more about you.”
You gave this some thought, blushing slightly.
You gave this some thought, blushing slightly.
“But I live in the opposite direction from your home.”
“But I live in the opposite direction from your home.”
“I don’t mind. I enjoy walking.”
“I don’t mind. I enjoy walking.”
“But what is it you want to know about me?” you asked.
“But what is it you want to know about me?” you asked.
“For instance, where do you live in this town? And with whom? And how did you come to work at the library?”
“For instance, where do you live in this town? And with whom? And how did you come to work at the library?”
You were quiet for a while, then said, “My home isn’t so far away.” That’s all. And that was a fact.
You were quiet for a while, then said, “My home isn’t so far away.” That’s all. And that was a fact.
You were wearing a blue coat made from a rough material like an Army blanket, a frayed crewneck sweater, and a gray skirt a size too big. All of which looked like hand-me-downs. Yet even in those shabby clothes, you were beautiful. Walking with you down the nighttime street, my chest tightened. So much so I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. Just like on that summer twilit evening when I was seventeen.
You were wearing a blue coat made from a rough material like an Army blanket, a frayed crewneck sweater, and a gray skirt a size too big. All of which looked like hand-me-downs. Yet even in those shabby clothes, you were beautiful. Walking with you down the nighttime street, my chest tightened. So much so I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. Just like on that summer twilit evening when I was seventeen.
“You mentioned you’d just come to this town, so where, if I may ask, did you come from?”
“You mentioned you’d just come to this town, so where, if I may ask, did you come from?”
“From a town far to the east,” I answered vaguely. “A large town very far away.”
“From a town far to the east,” I answered vaguely. “A large town very far away.”
“I don’t know anyplace other than this town. I was born here and have never been outside the wall.”
“I don’t know anyplace other than this town. I was born here and have never been outside the wall.”
Your voice was soft and gentle. The words you spoke were rigorously protected by that solid, twenty-six-foot-high wall.
Your voice was soft and gentle. The words you spoke were rigorously protected by that solid, twenty-six-foot-high wall.
“Why did you come all the way here? You’re the rst person I’ve met who’s come from elsewhere.”
“Why did you come all the way here? You’re the rst person I’ve met who’s come from elsewhere.”
“I wonder why myself,” I answered evasively.
“I wonder why myself,” I answered evasively. I came here to see you — but I wasn’t able to confess this to you. It was still too early. Before I did that, I needed to learn much more about the town.
I came here to see you — but I wasn’t able to confess this to you. It was still too early. Before I did that, I needed to learn much more about the town.
We walked along the road beside the river, toward the east, the streetlamps few and far between, and only faintly illuminating the night. Just as when I’d walked with you in the past, we walked side by side. The water owing in the river sounded tranquil. Night birds called out, in short, clear calls, from the woods beyond the river.
We walked along the road beside the river, toward the east, the streetlamps few and far between, and only faintly illuminating the night. Just as when I’d walked with you in the past, we walked side by side. The water owing in the river sounded tranquil. Night birds called out, in short, clear calls, from the woods beyond the river.
You seemed to want to know more about the “faraway town to the east” that I came from. That curiosity brought me a little closer to you.
You seemed to want to know more about the “faraway town to the east” that I came from. That curiosity brought me a little closer to you.
“What sort of town was it?”
“What sort of town was it?”
What kind of town was it, indeed, where I’d lived until recently? All kinds of words were exchanged there, the place over owing with excess subtext produced by these words.
What kind of town was it, indeed, where I’d lived until recently? All kinds of words were exchanged there, the place over owing with excess subtext produced by these words.
But if I explained it like that, how much of it would you understand? You were born and raised in this town where so little happened, where words were so few. A self-contained place, simple and serene. With no electricity or gas, a clock tower without hands, a library without a single book. A place where the words people used only had their literal meaning, where everything had its rightful place, xed, unwavering, in a place you could see.
But if I explained it like that, how much of it would you understand? You were born and raised in this town where so little happened, where words were so few. A self-contained place, simple and serene. With no electricity or gas, a clock tower without hands, a library without a single book. A place where the words people used only had their literal meaning, where everything had its rightful place, xed, unwavering, in a place you could see.
“In that town you lived in, what sort of lives did people have?”
“In that town you lived in, what sort of lives did people have?”
I couldn’t give a good answer to your question. Hmm—what kind of lives did we live there?
I couldn’t give a good answer to your question. Hmm—what kind of lives did we live there?
You asked, “That town is very di erent from this one, isn’t it? The size, how it came to be, the way people live. What is the biggest di erence, I wonder?”
You asked, “That town is very di erent from this one, isn’t it? The size, how it came to be, the way people live. What is the biggest di erence, I wonder?”
I inhaled the night air deeply, searching for the right words, the appropriate expression. And nally I said, “People there all have shadows with them.”
I inhaled the night air deeply, searching for the right words, the appropriate expression. And nally I said, “People there all have shadows with them.”
That’s right — people there all had shadows with them. Me, and you—we each had a shadow.
That’s right — people there all had shadows with them. Me, and you—we each had a shadow.
I remember your shadow very well. We were on a deserted street in the beginning of summer and you were stepping on my shadow and me on yours. It was like a game of Shadow Tag I used to play as a kid. I’m not sure how it started, but we began to play. On the early-summer street, our shadows were dark, dense, and alive. It was so intense that we could feel physical pain if our shadow was stepped on. It was, of course, just an innocent game, but we took it seriously. As if stepping on the other person’s shadow would have major consequences.
I remember your shadow very well. We were on a deserted street in the beginning of summer and you were stepping on my shadow and me on yours. It was like a game of Shadow Tag I used to play as a kid. I’m not sure how it started, but we began to play. On the early-summer street, our shadows were dark, dense, and alive. It was so intense that we could feel physical pain if our shadow was stepped on. It was, of course, just an innocent game, but we took it seriously. As if stepping on the other person’s shadow would have major consequences.
Afterward we sat down next to each other in the shade on an embankment and kissed for the rst time. Neither of us took the lead, and it wasn’t planned. No clear resolve from either of us to do it— it just happened. Our lips came together, and we merely followed where our feelings led. You closed your eyes and the tips of our tongues lightly, hesitantly, touched. I remember that afterward, neither of us could say anything. I think you and I both felt that if we said the wrong thing, we’d lose that precious feeling still tingling on our lips. So we stayed silent for a long while. Then we both burst out with something at the same exact moment, our words jumbling together. We laughed and kissed again.
Afterward we sat down next to each other in the shade on an embankment and kissed for the rst time. Neither of us took the lead, and it wasn’t planned. No clear resolve from either of us to do it— it just happened. Our lips came together, and we merely followed where our feelings led. You closed your eyes and the tips of our tongues lightly, hesitantly, touched. I remember that afterward, neither of us could say anything. I think you and I both felt that if we said the wrong thing, we’d lose that precious feeling still tingling on our lips. So we stayed silent for a long while. Then we both burst out with something at the same exact moment, our words jumbling together. We laughed and kissed again.
I have a handkerchief of yours. A simple handkerchief of soft white gauzy material, with a single lily of the valley embroidered in a corner. You lent it to me one time for some reason. I planned to wash it and give it back, but never did. Actually, I didn’t give it back on purpose. (If you had asked for it back, of course I would have returned it right away, pretending to have forgotten.) I’d often take the handkerchief out and, for a long time, quietly enjoy the soft material in my hands. That softness and you were one and the same. I’d close my eyes, lost in memories of my arms around you, our lips together. This was true when you were still with me, and even after you vanished somewhere.
I have a handkerchief of yours. A simple handkerchief of soft white gauzy material, with a single lily of the valley embroidered in a corner. You lent it to me one time for some reason. I planned to wash it and give it back, but never did. Actually, I didn’t give it back on purpose. (If you had asked for it back, of course I would have returned it right away, pretending to have forgotten.) I’d often take the handkerchief out and, for a long time, quietly enjoy the soft material in my hands. That softness and you were one and the same. I’d close my eyes, lost in memories of my arms around you, our lips together. This was true when you were still with me, and even after you vanished somewhere.
•
I remember very well a dream you wrote about in a letter to me (or more precisely one part of a dream). It was a long letter that took up eight pages of stationery. Your letters were written using the fountain pen you won at the essay contest, always in turquoise-blue ink. When we wrote each other we both used the fountain pens we received as a prize. A kind of unspoken agreement. Those fountain pens weren’t high quality, but for us they were precious mementos. Treasures, bonds between us. I always used black ink. True black, the same color as your jet-black hair.
I remember very well a dream you wrote about in a letter to me (or more precisely one part of a dream). It was a long letter that took up eight pages of stationery. Your letters were written using the fountain pen you won at the essay contest, always in turquoise-blue ink. When we wrote each other we both used the fountain pens we received as a prize. A kind of unspoken agreement. Those fountain pens weren’t high quality, but for us they were precious mementos. Treasures, bonds between us. I always used black ink. True black, the same color as your jet-black hair.
“Here’s a dream I had last night. And you were in it, a little,” you wrote at the beginning of your letter.
“Here’s a dream I had last night. And you were in it, a little,” you wrote at the beginning of your letter.
• • •
Here’s a dream I had last night. And you were in it, a little. Sorry it wasn’t a major role, but what can you do? It’s a dream. I don’t create my dreams— they’re given to me, by someone else from somewhere. I can’t change dreams the way I want to (probably), and besides, supporting characters are really important in any play or movie, right? The supporting actors can make or break a play or movie. So even if you didn’t have the lead role, be content with that, okay? And aim to win the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor.
Here’s a dream I had last night. And you were in it, a little. Sorry it wasn’t a major role, but what can you do? It’s a dream. I don’t create my dreams— they’re given to me, by someone else from somewhere. I can’t change dreams the way I want to (probably), and besides, supporting characters are really important in any play or movie, right? The supporting actors can make or break a play or movie. So even if you didn’t have the lead role, be content with that, okay? And aim to win the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor.
All that aside, when I woke up my heart was racing. [This was underlined, with a thick line, later on with a pencil.] ’Cause I still felt you right beside me even when I came back to reality. Though if you had really been there it would have even more fun . . . but I’m joking, of course.
All that aside, when I woke up my heart was racing. [This was underlined, with a thick line, later on with a pencil.] ’Cause I still felt you right beside me even when I came back to reality. Though if you had really been there it would have even more fun . . . but I’m joking, of course.
And like I always do, I picked up the notebook and stubby pencil I keep next to my bed and wrote down everything about that dream, as exhaustively as I could (I’m never sure how to spell that word). That’s the rst thing I do when I wake up. Whether it’s morning or the middle of the night, or if I’m still half awake or in a hurry, I write it all down in my notebook in as much detail as I can recall. I don’t keep a diary (I’ve tried many times but never kept at it even a week), but with writing down dreams I’ve never missed a day. Diligently recording my dreams instead of keeping
And like I always do, I picked up the notebook and stubby pencil I keep next to my bed and wrote down everything about that dream, as exhaustively as I could (I’m never sure how to spell that word). That’s the rst thing I do when I wake up. Whether it’s morning or the middle of the night, or if I’m still half awake or in a hurry, I write it all down in my notebook in as much detail as I can recall. I don’t keep a diary (I’ve tried many times but never kept at it even a week), but with writing down dreams I’ve never missed a day. Diligently recording my dreams instead of keeping
a diary must seem like a declaration— that for me, what happens in my dreams is more important than real life.
a diary must seem like a declaration— that for me, what happens in my dreams is more important than real life.
But actually, I don’t think that’s it. Obviously, my daily life and the events in my dreams are far apart— as di erent as a subway and a balloon. And just like everybody else, I’m captive to everyday life, clinging to the humble surface of the earth. Even the most powerful person, or the richest, can’t escape that gravity.
But actually, I don’t think that’s it. Obviously, my daily life and the events in my dreams are far apart— as di erent as a subway and a balloon. And just like everybody else, I’m captive to everyday life, clinging to the humble surface of the earth. Even the most powerful person, or the richest, can’t escape that gravity.
It’s just that, once I’ve snuggled into bed and fallen asleep, the world of dreams that arises there is so very vivid to me, the same as reality— or often (for some reason I like the word often) my dreams seem even more real. And what takes place in my dreams is, for the most part, totally unexpected. So sometimes I can’t tell which is which. Like I wonder, “Wait a sec— did I really experience that, or did I dream it?” Have you ever had that feeling? Like I can’t draw a line between dream and reality . . . I think that my tendency is much stronger than it is for other people. (The needle’s o the charts.) Something must have made me that way. Something innate.
It’s just that, once I’ve snuggled into bed and fallen asleep, the world of dreams that arises there is so very vivid to me, the same as reality— or often (for some reason I like the word often) my dreams seem even more real. And what takes place in my dreams is, for the most part, totally unexpected. So sometimes I can’t tell which is which. Like I wonder, “Wait a sec— did I really experience that, or did I dream it?” Have you ever had that feeling? Like I can’t draw a line between dream and reality . . . I think that my tendency is much stronger than it is for other people. (The needle’s o the charts.) Something must have made me that way.
Something innate.
I rst noticed this quality around the time I started elementary school. But when I talked about my dreams with my friends, no one seemed interested. Nobody cared about the dreams I had, or thought they were as important as I did. And the dreams they did care about were drab, unexciting, unappealing. I don’t know why, though . . . So, I soon stopped talking about dreams with my classmates. I never talked about dreams with my family (and honestly talked to them as little as possible, no matter what the topic). Instead, I began keeping a little notebook and pencil beside my bed when I went to sleep. Ever since, that notebook has been my indispensable friend, my trusty con dante. Maybe this doesn’t matter, but for me, writing down dreams with a stubby little pencil is best. Nothing longer than about three inches. Every night I’d sharpen a few of them with a knife so they’d be ready to go. Long brand-new pencils are a no-go! Why, I wonder? Why can’t I write down my dreams unless it’s with a stubby little pencil? Weird, if you think about it.
I rst noticed this quality around the time I started elementary school. But when I talked about my dreams with my friends, no one seemed interested. Nobody cared about the dreams I had, or thought they were as important as I did. And the dreams they did care about were drab, unexciting, unappealing. I don’t know why, though . . . So, I soon stopped talking about dreams with my classmates. I never talked about dreams with my family (and honestly talked to them as little as possible, no matter what the topic). Instead, I began keeping a little notebook and pencil beside my bed when I went to sleep. Ever since, that notebook has been my indispensable friend, my trusty con dante. Maybe this doesn’t matter, but for me, writing down dreams with a stubby little pencil is best. Nothing longer than about three inches. Every night I’d sharpen a few of them with a knife so they’d be ready to go. Long brand-new pencils are a no-go! Why, I wonder? Why can’t I write down my dreams unless it’s with a stubby little pencil? Weird, if you think about it.
Saying that notebook is my one friend makes it sound like The Diary of Anne Frank or something. I’m not in hiding, of course, or
Saying that notebook is my one friend makes it sound like The Diary of Anne Frank or something. I’m not in hiding, of course, or
surrounded by Nazi troops. At least the people around me don’t have swastika armbands on their sleeves, but still.
surrounded by Nazi troops. At least the people around me don’t have swastika armbands on their sleeves, but still.
Anyway, then there was that essay contest, and then I met you at the awards ceremony. That was the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me. Not the contest, but meeting you! You were interested in hearing about my dreams, and you listened so intently. This was the greatest thing. It was almost the rst time in my life I could talk as much as I wanted, about what I wanted to talk about, to someone who was genuinely interested.
Anyway, then there was that essay contest, and then I met you at the awards ceremony. That was the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me. Not the contest, but meeting you! You were interested in hearing about my dreams, and you listened so intently. This was the greatest thing. It was almost the rst time in my life I could talk as much as I wanted, about what I wanted to talk about, to someone who was genuinely interested.
By the way, do I use the word almost too much? It feels that way. I use some words too frequently (another word I have trouble remembering how to spell). I’ve got to be careful. Actually, I need to reread what I write and do a revision (another word I misspell), but when I reread my writing, it makes me want to rip it to shreds.
For real.
By the way, do I use the word almost too much? It feels that way. I use some words too frequently (another word I have trouble remembering how to spell). I’ve got to be careful. Actually, I need to reread what I write and do a revision (another word I misspell), but when I reread my writing, it makes me want to rip it to shreds. For real.
Ah, right— I was talking about the dream I had. That’s what I need to write about. I always go o on some other topic and can’t get back to the main point. Another one of my aws. By the way, what’s the di erence between a aw and a defect? Is aw correct here? But I’m getting o track again, right? They’re almost the same thing. [This was underlined again in pencil.] Anyway, back to the topic at hand. The dream I had last night.
Ah, right— I was talking about the dream I had. That’s what I need to write about. I always go o on some other topic and can’t get back to the main point. Another one of my aws. By the way, what’s the di erence between a aw and a defect? Is aw correct here? But I’m getting o track again, right? They’re almost the same thing. [This was underlined again in pencil.] Anyway, back to the topic at hand. The dream I had last night.
In the dream, I was naked. Stark naked. There’s the expression without a stitch, right? I always thought it was strange, kind of an exaggeration, but I looked at myself and saw I really was without a stitch. I mean, there might have been a piece of thread on my back where I couldn’t see it, not that it mattered. I was in a long, narrow bathtub, a white, classic Western-style bathtub. The kind that might have cute claw feet. But there was no water in the tub. I was lying, naked, in an empty bathtub.
In the dream, I was naked. Stark naked. There’s the expression without a stitch, right? I always thought it was strange, kind of an exaggeration, but I looked at myself and saw I really was without a stitch. I mean, there might have been a piece of thread on my back where I couldn’t see it, not that it mattered. I was in a long, narrow bathtub, a white, classic Western-style bathtub. The kind that might have cute claw feet. But there was no water in the tub. I was lying, naked, in an empty bathtub.
And when I looked closer, I saw it wasn’t my body. The breasts were too big for me. Normally I think it would be nice to have bigger breasts, but now that I did it felt unnatural, uncomfortable. A really weird sensation, like I wasn’t the real me. They were heavy, and I couldn’t see below them very well. The nipples seemed
And when I looked closer, I saw it wasn’t my body. The breasts were too big for me. Normally I think it would be nice to have bigger breasts, but now that I did it felt unnatural, uncomfortable. A really weird sensation, like I wasn’t the real me. They were heavy, and I couldn’t see below them very well. The nipples seemed
too big, as well. I was thinking that big breasts like these would swing back and forth when you ran, getting in the way. Maybe my smaller ones were better after all.
too big, as well. I was thinking that big breasts like these would swing back and forth when you ran, getting in the way. Maybe my smaller ones were better after all.
And I noticed, too, that my stomach was swollen. But not because I was fat. Every other part of my body was slim. My stomach alone was like a balloon. I realized I must be pregnant. From the size of my belly, I’d say I was seven or eight months along.
And I noticed, too, that my stomach was swollen. But not because I was fat. Every other part of my body was slim. My stomach alone was like a balloon. I realized I must be pregnant. From the size of my belly, I’d say I was seven or eight months along.
And what thought do you think popped into my head then?
And what thought do you think popped into my head then?
Clothes. With breasts this big, a stomach this swollen, what could I possibly wear? I was wondering if there were clothes somewhere that would t me. I mean, I was completely naked and had to put on something. The thought made me uneasy. If I have to go out on the streets like this, then what?
Clothes. With breasts this big, a stomach this swollen, what could I possibly wear? I was wondering if there were clothes somewhere that would t me. I mean, I was completely naked and had to put on something. The thought made me uneasy. If I have to go out on the streets like this, then what?
I stretched my neck up like a crane and gazed all around the room but didn’t spot any clothes. No bathrobe, either. Not even a towel. I literally couldn’t nd a stitch.
I stretched my neck up like a crane and gazed all around the room but didn’t spot any clothes. No bathrobe, either. Not even a towel. I literally couldn’t nd a stitch.
And then I heard a knock. Two heavy, short thuds on the door. That threw me. I couldn’t let anybody see me like this. As I lay there, confused over how to react, the person at the door swung it open and came inside.
And then I heard a knock. Two heavy, short thuds on the door. That threw me. I couldn’t let anybody see me like this. As I lay there, confused over how to react, the person at the door swung it open and came inside.
This room was a bathroom, but huge. As big as a regular-sized living room, and there was even a sofa. The ceiling was really high. There were lots of windows, too, and sunshine shone in brilliantly through them. From the light I gured it must be late morning.
This room was a bathroom, but huge. As big as a regular-sized living room, and there was even a sofa. The ceiling was really high. There were lots of windows, too, and sunshine shone in brilliantly through them. From the light I gured it must be late morning.
Who was this? I couldn’t nd out, to the very end, because I couldn’t see the person’s face. As the person opened the door, the sunlight shining through the windows suddenly became more intense, forming a halation, and I couldn’t see a thing. Just a dark, large shadowy gure standing in the doorway. From the silhouette, though, I gured it was a man. A very large man.
Who was this? I couldn’t nd out, to the very end, because I couldn’t see the person’s face. As the person opened the door, the sunlight shining through the windows suddenly became more intense, forming a halation, and I couldn’t see a thing. Just a dark, large shadowy gure standing in the doorway. From the silhouette, though, I gured it was a man. A very large man.
I had to cover myself. Since I was without a stitch. And a man I didn’t know was there. But like I said, even if I had wanted to cover myself there wasn’t anything I could use. No towel, no basin, no brush, nothing. With no other choice, I tried to hide the important part— is that the right way to put it?— below my belly
I had to cover myself. Since I was without a stitch. And a man I didn’t know was there. But like I said, even if I had wanted to cover myself there wasn’t anything I could use. No towel, no basin, no brush, nothing. With no other choice, I tried to hide the important part— is that the right way to put it?— below my belly
with my hand. But my hand just wouldn’t reach. Since my breasts and stomach were too big, and for some reason my arms were much shorter than normal.
with my hand. But my hand just wouldn’t reach. Since my breasts and stomach were too big, and for some reason my arms were much shorter than normal.
Yet the man was coming closer toward me. I had to do something. Just then the baby in my belly— at least I think it was a baby— started acting up, wildly. Like three unhappy moles deep down a dark hole, staging a revolt.
Yet the man was coming closer toward me. I had to do something. Just then the baby in my belly— at least I think it was a baby— started acting up, wildly. Like three unhappy moles deep down a dark hole, staging a revolt.
I suddenly realized this wasn’t a bathroom anymore. As I said, the room was the size of a living room, and now it really was one, and I was lying, naked on a sofa. And for some strange reason I had an eye at the center of each of my palms. Eyes with eyelashes, blinking. And dark black pupils. They were staring at me. But I didn’t feel frightened. Both eyes had a whitish scar. And were crying. Terribly silent, sad tears.
I suddenly realized this wasn’t a bathroom anymore. As I said, the room was the size of a living room, and now it really was one, and I was lying, naked on a sofa. And for some strange reason I had an eye at the center of each of my palms. Eyes with eyelashes, blinking. And dark black pupils. They were staring at me. But I didn’t feel frightened. Both eyes had a whitish scar. And were crying. Terribly silent, sad tears.
This is where the story reaches a crazy climax, and that’s where you appear in a minor role— but unfortunately I have to go out. I have something to do, so I have to leave my desk. Meaning I’ll break o the letter at this point, put what I’ve written already into an envelope, paste on a stamp, and dispatch it (is that the spelling? And why don’t I look things up in a dictionary?) into the mailbox in front of the station. I’ll write the rest of that dream next time. Look forward to it, okay? And write to me, too— please — a letter almost too long to nish reading.
This is where the story reaches a crazy climax, and that’s where you appear in a minor role— but unfortunately I have to go out. I have something to do, so I have to leave my desk. Meaning I’ll break o the letter at this point, put what I’ve written already into an envelope, paste on a stamp, and dispatch it (is that the spelling? And why don’t I look things up in a dictionary?) into the mailbox in front of the station. I’ll write the rest of that dream next time. Look forward to it, okay? And write to me, too— please — a letter almost too long to nish reading.
In the end I never heard what happened in the rest of that dream. The next letter she wrote me was about something completely di erent (I think she forgot about writing the rest of the dream). So I never did learn what kind of supporting role I played in it. And I probably never will.
In the end I never heard what happened in the rest of that dream. The next letter she wrote me was about something completely di erent (I think she forgot about writing the rest of the dream). So I never did learn what kind of supporting role I played in it. And I probably never will.
It’s true that people there all have shadows with them.
It’s true that people there all have shadows with them.
In this town, people lack shadows. Once you get rid of your shadow, you really understand, for the rst time, that shadows have their own weight. In the same way that you don’t ordinarily feel Earth’s gravity.
In this town, people lack shadows. Once you get rid of your shadow, you really understand, for the rst time, that shadows have their own weight. In the same way that you don’t ordinarily feel Earth’s gravity.
Getting rid of a shadow, of course, isn’t so easy. It’s disturbing to part with someone, no matter who it is, especially when you’ve spent so many years together with them and grown so close. When I came to this town, I had to leave my shadow with the Gatekeeper at the entrance.
Getting rid of a shadow, of course, isn’t so easy. It’s disturbing to part with someone, no matter who it is, especially when you’ve spent so many years together with them and grown so close. When I came to this town, I had to leave my shadow with the Gatekeeper at the entrance.
“You can’t step inside the wall with a shadow,” the Gatekeeper informed me. “You either leave him here or give up on going inside. One or the other.”
“You can’t step inside the wall with a shadow,” the Gatekeeper informed me. “You either leave him here or give up on going inside. One or the other.”
I got rid of my shadow.
I got rid of my shadow.
The Gatekeeper had me stand in a sunny warm spot and then he grabbed my shadow. My shadow trembled in fear.
The Gatekeeper had me stand in a sunny warm spot and then he grabbed my shadow. My shadow trembled in fear.
The Gatekeeper turned to my shadow and gru y said, “It’s alright. Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to rip out your ngernails or anything. It won’t hurt, and it’ll be over soon.”
The Gatekeeper turned to my shadow and gru y said, “It’s alright. Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to rip out your ngernails or anything. It won’t hurt, and it’ll be over soon.”
Even so, the shadow struggled a bit, but he was no match for the powerful Gatekeeper and he was soon ripped apart from me, and he wilted and slumped down on a nearby wooden bench. Once separated from my body, my shadow looked much shabbier than I’d imagined. Like a pair of discarded old boots.
Even so, the shadow struggled a bit, but he was no match for the powerful Gatekeeper and he was soon ripped apart from me, and he wilted and slumped down on a nearby wooden bench. Once separated from my body, my shadow looked much shabbier than I’d imagined. Like a pair of discarded old boots.
The Gatekeeper said, “Once you’re apart from each other it looks really strange, doesn’t it. Hard to believe you had a thing like that stuck to you, huh?”
The Gatekeeper said, “Once you’re apart from each other it looks really strange, doesn’t it. Hard to believe you had a thing like that stuck to you, huh?”
I gave a vague reply. It still hadn’t hit me that I’d lost my shadow.
I gave a vague reply. It still hadn’t hit me that I’d lost my shadow.
“Shadows, you know, are useless,” the Gatekeeper continued. “Do you ever remember your shadow doing anything very important for you?”
“Shadows, you know, are useless,” the Gatekeeper continued. “Do you ever remember your shadow doing anything very important for you?”
I didn’t. At least, I couldn’t come up with anything on the spot.
I didn’t. At least, I couldn’t come up with anything on the spot.
“Am I right?” the Gatekeeper said proudly. “And yet he has quite the big mouth on him. I don’t like that, this one’s okay, though — always quibbling, even though he can’t do a thing on his own.”
“Am I right?” the Gatekeeper said proudly. “And yet he has quite the big mouth on him. I don’t like that, this one’s okay, though — always quibbling, even though he can’t do a thing on his own.”
“What’s going to happen to my shadow?”
“What’s going to happen to my shadow?”
“I’ll treat him well, like a guest. I have a room and a bed ready for him, and though I don’t provide gourmet fare, he’ll get three square meals a day. And I’ll ask him to do some work here occasionally.”
“I’ll treat him well, like a guest. I have a room and a bed ready for him, and though I don’t provide gourmet fare, he’ll get three square meals a day. And I’ll ask him to do some work here occasionally.”
“Work?” I asked. “What kind of work?”
“Work?” I asked. “What kind of work?”
“Odd jobs. Mostly outside the wall, but nothing major. Picking apples, helping out with the beasts, and so on . . . It depends on the season.”
“Odd jobs. Mostly outside the wall, but nothing major. Picking apples, helping out with the beasts, and so on . . . It depends on the season.”
“What if I want to get my shadow back?”
“What if I want to get my shadow back?”
The Gatekeeper narrowed his eyes, gazing steadily at me. Like he was looking through a gap in a curtain, surveying a deserted room. And then he spoke.
The Gatekeeper narrowed his eyes, gazing steadily at me. Like he was looking through a gap in a curtain, surveying a deserted room. And then he spoke.
“I’ve been doing this job for a long time, but I’ve never run across anyone who asked to get their shadow back.”
“I’ve been doing this job for a long time, but I’ve never run across anyone who asked to get their shadow back.”
My shadow crouched down there quietly, looking at me, as if asking for something.
My shadow crouched down there quietly, looking at me, as if asking for something.
“No need to worry,” the Gatekeeper said, encouragingly. “You’ll get used to a life without a shadow. Before long you’ll forget you even had one. Like— did I really have one of those?”
“No need to worry,” the Gatekeeper said, encouragingly. “You’ll get used to a life without a shadow. Before long you’ll forget you even had one. Like— did I really have one of those?”
The shadow crouched there, listening to the Gatekeeper’s words. I did feel a little guilty. Unavoidable, I suppose, since I was getting rid of my alter ego.
The shadow crouched there, listening to the Gatekeeper’s words. I did feel a little guilty. Unavoidable, I suppose, since I was getting rid of my alter ego.
“This gate is the sole entrance to the town,” the Gatekeeper said, pointing a plump nger at the gate. “Once a person passes through and goes inside, they can’t ever go outside again. The wall doesn’t allow it. That’s the rule. We don’t make you sign a pledge or seal it in blood, nothing extreme like that, but it’s an unmistakable contract. You understand that, right?”
“This gate is the sole entrance to the town,” the Gatekeeper said, pointing a plump nger at the gate. “Once a person passes through and goes inside, they can’t ever go outside again. The wall doesn’t allow it. That’s the rule. We don’t make you sign a pledge or seal it in blood, nothing extreme like that, but it’s an unmistakable contract. You understand that, right?”
I understand, I said.
I understand, I said.
“One more thing. Since you’re going to be the Dream Reader, you’ll be given the appropriate eyes. This is a rule, too. It might be a bit inconvenient until your eyes heal. You understand that too?”
“One more thing. Since you’re going to be the Dream Reader, you’ll be given the appropriate eyes. This is a rule, too. It might be a bit inconvenient until your eyes heal. You understand that too?”
Then I passed through the town gate. Abandoning my shadow, accepting the wounded eyes of a Dream Reader, signing the unspoken contract that I would never again go through this gate.
Then I passed through the town gate. Abandoning my shadow, accepting the wounded eyes of a Dream Reader, signing the unspoken contract that I would never again go through this gate.
In that other town (the town I used to live in), I explained to you, everyone drags their shadow along with them. In the light, your shadow moves along with your body, while in the darkness, your shadow hides. And when it’s completely dark, your body and your shadow can rest together. But a person and his shadow are never pulled apart. Shadows are always there, whether you can see them or not.
In that other town (the town I used to live in), I explained to you, everyone drags their shadow along with them. In the light, your shadow moves along with your body, while in the darkness, your shadow hides. And when it’s completely dark, your body and your shadow can rest together. But a person and his shadow are never pulled apart. Shadows are always there, whether you can see them or not.
“Does the shadow help the person in some way?” you asked.
“Does the shadow help the person in some way?” you asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Then why doesn’t everyone get rid of them?”
“Then why doesn’t everyone get rid of them?”
“They don’t know how to. But even if they did, I doubt anyone would discard their shadow.”
“They don’t know how to. But even if they did, I doubt anyone would discard their shadow.”
“How come?”
“How come?”
“Because people are used to them. Whether they serve any purpose or not.”
“Because people are used to them. Whether they serve any purpose or not.”
Naturally you couldn’t comprehend what that meant.
Naturally you couldn’t comprehend what that meant. In the sandbank there was a scattering of riverside willows. Tied to the trunk of one tree with a rope was an old wooden boat, the ow of the water gently lapping around it.
In the sandbank there was a scattering of riverside willows. Tied to the trunk of one tree with a rope was an old wooden boat, the ow of the water gently lapping around it.
“Since before we can remember, our shadows have been torn away from us. Like a baby’s umbilical cord being cut, or baby teeth falling out. And the shadows cut away from us are forced outside the wall.”
“Since before we can remember, our shadows have been torn away from us. Like a baby’s umbilical cord being cut, or baby teeth falling out. And the shadows cut away from us are forced outside the wall.”
“And the shadows live on their own in the world outside?”
“And the shadows live on their own in the world outside?”
“They’re mostly sent away to the outside. It’s not like they’re abandoned in the middle of the wilderness.”
“They’re mostly sent away to the outside. It’s not like they’re abandoned in the middle of the wilderness.”
“I wonder what happened to your shadow?”
“I wonder what happened to your shadow?”
“Who knows. But I’m sure he died long ago. Shadows separated from the body are like plants without roots. They don’t live long.”
“Who knows. But I’m sure he died long ago. Shadows separated from the body are like plants without roots. They don’t live long.”
“And you’ve never met that shadow?”
“And you’ve never met that shadow?”
“My shadow?”
“Yes.”
“My shadow?”
“Yes.”
You looked at me with a strange expression. And then you said,
You looked at me with a strange expression. And then you said,
“The dark heart is sent somewhere far away, and nally it loses its life.”
“The dark heart is sent somewhere far away, and nally it loses its life.”
You and I were walking together on a path beside the river. Occasionally the wind rose up and rippled the surface of the river, and you gathered together the collar of your coat with both hands.
You and I were walking together on a path beside the river. Occasionally the wind rose up and rippled the surface of the river, and you gathered together the collar of your coat with both hands.
“Your shadow will pass away before long. When the shadow dies, dark thoughts vanish, too, leaving behind a stillness.”
“Your shadow will pass away before long. When the shadow dies, dark thoughts vanish, too, leaving behind a stillness.”
When you said it, stillness sounded like an eternal quietude.
When you said it, stillness sounded like an eternal quietude.
“And the wall will protect this, right?”
“And the wall will protect this, right?”
She looked straight at me. “That’s why you came to this town. From somewhere far away.”
She looked straight at me. “That’s why you came to this town. From somewhere far away.”
The Workers’ District was a desolate area spread out northeast of the Old Bridge. The canal, which had once been full of clean, clear water, was now dried up and lled with thick, gray mud. Still, a memory of moist air lingered.
The Workers’ District was a desolate area spread out northeast of the Old Bridge. The canal, which had once been full of clean, clear water, was now dried up and lled with thick, gray mud. Still, a memory of moist air lingered.
Just past the dark, deserted factory district, there was an area dedicated to communal housing for workers, with old wooden two-story structures that looked on the verge of collapse. People who lived there were known as workers, though none of them actually worked in factories. It was just a convenient label that didn’t really mean anything anymore. The factories closed down long ago and the tall chimneys no longer belched smoke.
Just past the dark, deserted factory district, there was an area dedicated to communal housing for workers, with old wooden two-story structures that looked on the verge of collapse. People who lived there were known as workers, though none of them actually worked in factories. It was just a convenient label that didn’t really mean anything anymore. The factories closed down long ago and the tall chimneys no longer belched smoke.
A narrow, paved road wound its way through the buildings like a maze, its agstones imbued with the smells and sounds of the lives of countless generations of people. As we walked along the worn stones, the soles of our shoes didn’t make a sound. At one point in this maze, you came to a sudden halt, and turned and spoke.
A narrow, paved road wound its way through the buildings like a maze, its agstones imbued with the smells and sounds of the lives of countless generations of people. As we walked along the worn stones, the soles of our shoes didn’t make a sound. At one point in this maze, you came to a sudden halt, and turned and spoke.
“Thank you for walking me home. Do you know how to get back to your place?”
“Thank you for walking me home. Do you know how to get back to your place?”
“I think so. Once I get out on the canal it should be easy.”
“I think so. Once I get out on the canal it should be easy.”
You rewound your scarf and gave me a short nod. Then you turned around, quickly walked over to one of the doors of a dark wooden residence— all of which looked the same— and vanished inside.
You rewound your scarf and gave me a short nod. Then you turned around, quickly walked over to one of the doors of a dark wooden residence— all of which looked the same— and vanished inside.
I walked slowly home, vacillating between two towering emotions. I felt that I was no longer all alone in this town, while simultaneously I felt that I would always be alone. My heart felt torn in half. The branches of the river willows made a quiet sound as they swayed.
I walked slowly home, vacillating between two towering emotions. I felt that I was no longer all alone in this town, while simultaneously I felt that I would always be alone. My heart felt torn in half. The branches of the river willows made a quiet sound as they swayed.
