Thank you times a million to everyone who reviewed: grapesandoats, Yavapai, impersonal, petiyaka, Mantaray, Queen Nepy, Haruka-Michiru, AlterEgoErin & tears of the soul. You guys really know how to make a newcomer feel welcomed!
To answer one reviewer's question, no, this isn't set in an alternate universe, all I've altered is the time, place and manner of H&M's introduction, their histories, as well as their introduction to other characters such as Usagi & co. I plan to get the twosome sailor-suited in future chapters, true to the anime/manga – I quite fancy writing some nice action scenes! Oh, and the only other change is that Mugen is a normal, pleasant upstate school, not an evil hive of illicit alien activity. Like many "how H&M met" stories, it's set between R & S seasons. I'm sorry I wasn't clear about all this before!
I'm also sorry about the glitch at the beginning with the first line – I know NOTHING about computers! Without further ado…Chapter 2! Peace x
-
I tipped my head back against the fire exit, staring up at the green exit light. Her door was still shut. What was she doing in there?
Meanwhile, here I am, I thought, waiting in this whitewash, industrial catacomb with its unyielding concrete soullessness and harsh, windowless stench of inhabitability. I scoffed.
The hum of underground.
The auditorium must be deserted by now.
Deserted. Isolated. Gone. I'd been abroad for two years; moving, without purpose, on the strange, inhospitable surface of what had been, to me, another planet. In America, I had existed in a perpetual state of slowness, as if I were moving underwater in a great, gurgling diving bell. My time and my gravity were amplified, rumbling and slow, consuming me with their vast, creaking scope, while all others rushed about me, a petty, blur in the fleeting distance. I was separated from other people.
No, 'other' is the wrong word. 'Other' is 'like me, but not me'. I was different.
No matter how close I got to anyone, there was always a glass barrier between me and them. And they were not other people: I was Haruka, they were people.
Maybe not a glass barrier, then. A cage. Bars. A metal-barred zoo cage, for another species.
I heard footsteps, and looked up. The lights in the dressing room were extinguished, and Michiru Kaioh stepped out in a waisted grey duffel coat, with a Mugen Gaken school briefcase in one hand, violin in the other. She strode in relative silence along the corridor, gazing only a few feet ahead of her. I thought she might end up walking into me, but she looked up when she reached the foot of the stairs. The two blue orbs of her eyes gazed wearily at me. They seemed set deeper within her than they had been earlier in the evening, like a turtle withdrawing within itself for protection. After a short silence, I decided to speak.
"Ms. Kaioh". I couldn't think of much to say, how to broach the subject. I was definitely not the type to go figuring out my pitch before I made it.
"Yes?" her voice was quietly restrained, but still seemed stretched and feeble. She bit her lip.
"You're very tired, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am. I'm jet-lagged, and I've slept little since I got back".
"Not tired in that way". She gazed at me. The smallest sigh was lost into the corridor. I heard it dissolve away into the low, steady fizz of the UV lights.
"The Tenoh boy, is it?"
"Yes. Sort of. Haruka". Oops. Could require future explaining, I thought to myself.
"Well?" she heaved, looking down absent-mindedly at her cases.
"Would you play with me?" I put it as blankly as I could. How else to put it?
"Excuse me?" she looked up at me, incredulous. Placing her bags with distinct purpose on the concrete floor, she quickly returned to her full height, to continue boring into my head with challenging eyes that were verging on 'appalled'.
"Would you come play with me?" I tensed slightly.
"I can't believe this. I barely know you're name and you think I'm going to hook up with you at the drop of a-"
I couldn't help but smirk. She stopped speaking and deepened her threatening stare. She began again, her tone slowing with distinct, venomous unease.
"You-"
"The violin". She was silenced again. Then,
"What?"
"Would you play it. With me. A duet".
"Oh". Her muscles relaxed, the poisonous tension seeping from them in the silent space of the corridor, soaking away into the concrete floor.
"I know you're very tired, but I heard about you a while ago, and finally heard your playing tonight and you're…well…"
Her stare softened, though still, however, a stare. She sighed again, but not an airless, ghostly sigh as before, but a full, warm, human sigh. The little cogs in her head were calculating and processing. I could hear them working away from at the top of the stairs.
"The auditorium?"
"The stage floodlight is still on. It's empty". I moved down the stairs, and stopped two feet from her. I could see the shallow, fleshy crater of a tiny scar on the tender skin beneath her left eye. She looked up after she had finished thinking.
"And where is you instrument, Tenoh?"
"Piano".
"We don't have an audience," she challenged slowly once more.
"Play for yourself, for your own enjoyment. Isn't that important?"
She gave me another incredulous look.
"Have you ever met Mr. Abe?"
"Who, the conductor?"
She shook her head in gentle humour, gazing back at the cold floor.
"You two should have a meeting of the minds," she said. I felt her about to smile, verging, like the surface of a full glass of water about to break and brim over. Another, deep, earthy sigh of wearing. She shook her hair from her bowed face and traced the outline of a coat-button in thought.
"And…" she began, raising her head, "okay".
-
I shake my coat from my shoulders, setting it still on a chair with my briefcase. I gaze around the auditorium. Without the usual crowds of people, it is distinctly colder. And smaller. The strange chokehold the midnight hour has on time and gravity extends itself here, silently blanketing the expanse of seats in a thick, invisible dust. Without the rhythmic breath of hot candle flicker, the darkened chandelier is suspended unnaturally from the domed roof like a hanged man's bloodless corpse. The floodlight above the stage is blank and surgical. The Tenoh boy sits, patiently waiting, on the black-lacquer piano stool, leaning quietly on the lid, resting his head in his hands. I am struck by the strange illusion that his head is heavy, very, very heavy with the muffled gravity of travel-weariness and piled-up unanswered thought upon unanswered thought. Then he looks up.
"Ready?"
"Almost". I unlock my violin case. The click rolls swiftly around the auditorium, before being claimed by the strange, dark magnetism of midnight as it is pulled into the deathly black. Quiet again. I gently ease my violin from its nest as if it were my child. It is. A tender, breathing creature. My heart is swelling up inside it, filling it, aching tirelessly to be released as one whole, perfect, room-swallowing sound. I rise and move across the polished wooden planks, violin and bow in hand, to take my place behind the piano, in clear view of the Tenoh boy. Eye contact is of utmost importance.
"What would you like?" he asks, his cheeks coolly tensing into a small smile as he rises into a straight-backed posture.
"Surprise me," I respond immediately as he lifts the lid. I see his hands quiver, flushed with new, spirited blood at the sight of the waiting keys. I recognise the ache.
"My pleasure". He rests his fingers breathlessly on the cold keys for a moment, savouring the approach of the release. Then, he falls to playing, fingers barely touching the keys with feather-light, fluttering precision, slowly and effortlessly drawing out all he can from the huge instrument, but not quite. He does not fulfil himself, restraining.
Sonata for Violin and Piano in G minor, Debussy.
His hands suck the life out of the piano, mercilessly, fleetingly, draining it of its spirit and drawing it up through his fingers, before surrendering it wholly as a beautiful, rounded sound to the waiting auditorium. But not fully. He is waiting for me to begin.
Raising my bow, I watch him. He lifts his eyes to mine, and I search them. His performance is lovely, but I must look for what he wants from me, what he is trying to tell me, the magnetism in his eyes he needs me to return with my violin.
To play for ourselves. No audience. He slips on a few technicalities, but all he creates from the piano is for us, his satisfaction and enjoyment evident. He doesn't want me to worry, or care, or think, or calculate. Just to saturate myself with our sound.
I let my bow slide generously across my violin, closing my eyes and allowing my hands to be driven by the current of his melody, my notes enveloping, enshrouding his. And I feel it rising between us, like the monsoon and a flood.
I push with my heart for that river to burst its banks, to swallow up the flatlands in song, before the thirsty soil soaks it away deep into the Earth, and it is lost forever.
-
I sat at my table, watching the clouds blossom like bruises, or sink and engulf each other, eating my breakfast in a pleasant silence. The couple below me had the television on, and the shallow roll of laughter from the audience seeped through the floorboards, creeping up to me on the floor above. However, the sun was bright. Not a cold, searing brightness, like a dentist's lamp, but a warm, milky, glistening yolk-yellow that nourished the soft forms of my crumpled duvet or sleeping newspaper. It filled the gentle, harmless motions of the street below me - cyclists, walkers, dogs, prams – with a dozy, settled contentedness. The phone buzzed suddenly on its plastic cradle. I leaned back on my white wooden chair and un-clunked it from the plastic catch.
"Hey. Tenoh".
"Oh, hello. It's Tsukino Usagi," the line was obstructed with a muffled shroud of electric crackling, but her voice was as bright as it had been last night as she spoke to me face to face, before and after the performances.
"Well, it's certainly a pleasure to hear from you in the morning, kitten. What can I do for you?"
"It's, um, Furuhata Motoki. He's the one who gave me your number".
"Oh, wow. Motoki. I remember him. At the Arcade?"
"Yes. He works there part time". I relaxed back in my chair, grinning for myself as I stirred my cereal musefully with a fork.
"Damn, I remember way back when he started there".
"He told me that he knew you when I saw him this morning".
"This morning? It's only just ten o' clock now, what on earth were you doing at an Arcade so early on a Sunday?"
"Well, that's the thing," she sighs with gentle impatience over the receiver, "Motoki told me about how you used to do motocross and racing and how great you were at it-"
"-did he now?"
"-yeah, and he'd like to see you again, 'cause today he's holding a kind of informal tournament at the Crown for the new racing simulators. That's why me and Minako-"
"-oh, the blonde Aino girl-"
"-were there so early," she sped on, clearly breathless with enthusiasm, "I thought you might want to join us, you'd be really great, and you could even win. Me and Minako will buy you crêpes if you do, that's how we bet on the outcome of our races".
"Okay, okay," I laughed, twirling my fork in my hand, "I'll come. Is it down the side street from the indoor shopping arcade? I can't remember too well".
"Yeah, and thank you so much, Motoki will be so glad".
"Okay, see you there," I replied, before replacing the receiver.
I rose from my chair, picking up my soggy bowl of decrepit cornflakes and placing it with a clunk on the breakfast; a sound which seemed distinctly sorry for itself. My feet padded pleasantly on the sun-warmed wooden flooring as I moved into the bedroom, yawning and sliding my nightshirt over my heavy head. I gazed in the mirror as the well-formed bulge of my newly-minted, full hips and sunken channel of my belly button; taut young skin pulled over the virginal dip of my waist like new fabric across a loom. Every bit the racing car champion.
-
I breathe in as deep as I can. Oh, morning. I feel the sharp air spread across the surface of my lungs like the soft press of a palm to a sheet of ice. The ghost of the previous night's rain is suspended tenderly in the air, a pressure most fresh and moist, like the cool, new-bled flesh of a just-split coconut. The park is welcoming a few people, not too many, not too few; it's just right. A warming breeze tosses my hair across my shoulders and carries the voices of others around me. This gap, the odd, misfit space between summer and autumn, where the weather just doesn't know what to do with itself, is a bizarre consolation. It fits how I'm feeling right now, how I've been for so long: my heart shivering gently with uncertainty, holed-up, hiding in my chest. The seasons and I, we're both out of place.
I feel content, but underneath my thoughts and processes, there is a constant drone, a buzz that won't die away. It's like stirring a cup of coffee, only the liquid won't settle still; just keeps on moving, disturbed, waiting. This stubborn background activity reminds me, constantly, of my displacement, my alienation. I want a stop, a click, for everything to fall into place, and: stillness, silence. But my mind is awake; a deep, wary consciousness stirs thickly, letting me know that I am lacking. What is it I need? I feel like I am chasing something round a tall bush, the answer, but it is eluding me, and, worse still, I can't see it. I don't know what it is. All I can hear is its rustling and the nimble pad of its footsteps as it creeps further and further from me.
A bird skitters on the path, and jolts its head, looking right through me.
I slip a gloved hand into the pocket of my duffel coat, and take out the newspaper clipping. I remember what the boy told me last night. We finished our duet and the notes trailed off into the hungry midnight, like a tap trickling away, swallowed up. We were both exhausted, and thanked each other with a silent exchange of nods. As I put away my violin, the Tenoh boy came over to me.
'I have a small present for you. To say thank you'.
He reached into his jeans' pocket and retrieved the tiny piece of paper he'd be studying earlier, and handed it to me. Then turned and exited through the wings and the backstage. A small article about me and Ms. Dimitra at the beginning of summer in New York. It was from an American newspaper, probably New York Times. He must've been in America, then, and brought it with him all the way back to Japan.
I am struck by a sudden gust of fresh thought – was he at the recital in New York?
I try to think.
No…no, he wasn't. He said that yesterday was the first time he'd heard me play: '…finally heard your playing tonight…'
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Still holding the clipping in one hand, I reach into my inner pocket with the other and retrieve my cell phone, pressing green.
"Hello?"
"Oh, hey Michi! It's Takeo". I gaze out across the park. Green, whispering trees and a pleasant, sweeping lawn. I delay, not quite registering him.
"Oh, hey, Takeo".
"I was thinking, since it's our last day of freedom, and if you aren't doing anything else, maybe you'd like to go somewhere with me? There's a new Ice Rink up by the Patisserie you like. How does lunch out and an afternoon's ice-skating sound, babe?"
"Well," I begin slowly. I think of how long I've been away. I know how much Takeo enjoys my companionship. He is very generous to me.
"You…just want to have some time alone? I understand, you're probably feeling pretty rotten, jet-lag and stuff. And you were up late last night. I'm sorry, Michiru".
"No, it's okay, Takeo," I put firmly, "I'd like your company". I'm about to say 'I missed you', but I didn't. I don't want to lie to him.
"That's great," I can hear the smile in his voice, "I'm at the Crown with some friends. Meet me there?"
"Okay. Bye".
I lock the keypad and put my phone back in the inner pocket. I stretch, straightening up and lifting my weight from the bench. I breathe in deeply again, hoping the air will thunder up into my skull and blow away all my niggling thoughts. I gaze up at the sky. It won't rain again today. I look once more at my black and white double staring out flatly at me from the photograph, then replace the clipping carefully in my pocket.
-
I arrive at the arcade, and theatrical clusters of Junior High Schoolers screech loudly or gush to their friends with impatient purpose. An impressive rumble of noise spills out onto the busy Sunday streets from within the arcade, and shoppers or passers-by glance warily inside as they stroll by. There must be some event on, I wonder as I stride deftly along the concrete slabs, avoiding caved-in drinks cans. A handmade sign taped inside the window announces in sloping handwriting that a tournament is taking place for the latest Racing Simulators.
I step inside, and am met by a wall of sound. Loud, artificial rumbling of arcade machines, deafening from the speakers, is soaked up by the overwhelming tide of voices that wash over me from the crowd gathering deeper within the bowels of the darkened arcade floor. From far away, within the heart of the crowd, flickering, morphing blasts of light signal, like flares in a dark forest, the centre of the shouting activity. I make my way apprehensively up to the few shadowed stragglers holding a shouted conversation at the front, and pass them, pushing into the outer membrane of the huge, dense mass of human bodies. Cursing, I force my way blindly through, following the noise and surges of light that are thrown up periodically above the darkened heads of those around me.
Seeing a hand slip through a head of ruffled black hair as I move towards the heart of the action, I call out, "Takeo!"
The tall figure, standing near the centre of the crowd, turns. A dramatic, film-noir shadow is thrown across his handsome cheekbones, his dark eyes like dying coals as they glisten wavering gold in the artificial flicker of the racer machines. I see his mouth open like a guppy, shouting something back to me, but I can't hear him; I can't pull his voice from the knotted mess of mixed deafening sound. He extends his hand. With a violent, mustered push, I peel apart the crowd in front of me and grasp his hand. He pulls me through.
We're standing in the inner ring of spectators. I'm amazed at the sight of clear floor, although it is covered in running, veiny knots of cable. Five driving simulators stand with the cavity in the crowd, the light from them casting dramatic shadows across the crowds directly in their glare. However, only two of them are in use.
"It's the final," shouts Takeo into my ear. On the racer sim' two down from us is a tall, gangly Asian boy, his face a mask of quivering concentration, eyes frozen over.
Next to him, in front of us, back to us, is a tall, lean figure with a boyish crop of windswept sandy hair and, at the wheel, firm pianist's hands. My throat tautens a little, my fingers gently squeeze Takeo's as-
"-Haruka Tenoh!" he shouts, "can you believe it? He's like this genius racer, damn, he's gonna win, just look!"
His feet's frictionless sweeping between pedals, gently pushing and easing pressure, and light, fleeting handling of the wheel reminds me of his manner at the piano. Slight actions somehow producing breathlessly powerful outcomes.
I draw a sharp stab of breath; the apronned Furuhata boy standing between the racing machines screeches, grinning, as the Tenoh boy's screen flashes with a large yellow font. The crowd rumbles and wave of jubilant sound hits me from behind. I watch the Tenoh boy as he falls back in his seat, and catch his side profile, illuminated, unearthly, by the glow of the machine as he turns to speak to two blonde girls to his left. I watch his silent, smiling mouth move.
I lift a hand to reach his shoulder, when I feel myself being pulled back into the black mass of roaring bodies.
"Come on, we saw it, let's go," yells Takeo to me.
I watch the silent moving image of the Tenoh boy, crowned by the yellow flare of his machine, being swallowed up, further and further, until I'm blinded by darkness and noise. I am, suddenly, reminded of the image of my glowing earring drifting down into the black lapping ocean, smaller and smaller until it is no more.
-
I stood waiting on the almost-empty street as Usagi and Minako fell through the café's doors, giggling. The breeze was pleasant and the evening was beginning its cool descent upon the city at a leisurely pace. A few people were out, couples or dog walkers, enjoying the pleasant, final few patches of sunshine. It'd took us almost an hour to escape the arcade, after the crowds descended on me after the drama of the final.
Usagi skipped forward to my side and grabbed my arm, eyes glowing. Minako appeared, strolling the other side of her, grinning, hands in pockets.
"Thank you very much for the crêpes, Mr. Haruka!" she beamed, flashing the 'peace' insignia with a pinked-gloved hand.
"Yep, they were yummy," glowed Usagi, her eyes glazing over in reminiscence.
"All six of them, eh, dumpling?" I smirked, running a hand casually through my fringe.
"I apologise for her," said Minako with intended coolness, as she slid Usagi a sharp look, "but she'll pay for it one day when she swells up like a watermelon".
"Hey!" Usagi fell in step with her and gave her a close glare, squaring up to her. We turned a corner and pulled our coats tighter to ourselves. The sky was cloudless.
"Now, now, kittens," I winked, "if you keep arguing you'll get wrinkles".
"It's not my fault," declared Usagi, breaking away from us coldly, "I think Minako is filling in for Rei, who fortunately has slipped up on her bullying duties lately, being so tied up with the recital and whatnot".
Minako giggled and caught up with Usagi with a gentle skip, and leaned her head against the other girl's. There was a short silence, and I heard the low drone of cars in the distance.
"You know," began Minako softly, "you didn't have to pay for our desserts, Mr. Haruka".
"Well, kitten," I pondered gently, tipping my head back and losing my gaze into the impossibly blue globe of the heavens, "it's decidedly American to make the losers pay. The winner should be gracious and console his comrades with gifts".
"How gentlemanly," concluded Minako with a thick undertone of sarcasm (no doubt at the use of the term 'losers'), her arm around Usagi. Their shoes rapped callously on the concrete as we turned down into a wide street where several cars waited at a stoplight.
"Mmm," trailed Usagi with a distinctly pleasant, bubbling sleepiness, "like Mamo". I heard a soft sigh of amusement leave Minako.
"You know," she said, turning to look at me, "the First Violinist, the Kaioh girl, was standing behind you watching when you finished your winning race. She was with your friend".
I suddenly doubled my step, and blinked at Minako.
"What, Takeo?" I asked smartly, taken aback.
"Yeah, him". She resumed lolling on Usagi like a dozing puppy.
"I didn't see her. Are you sure?"
"Umm…I don't know…I think they left just after you finished". We stopped at the mouth of a smaller side street that fed into a quiet residential area populated with tasteful family houses. The high white-rendered wall of the nearest one was dressed in a lazily trailing veil of ivy, on which a ginger cat dozed in perfect evening stillness, like a small statue. The two girls turned to me.
"Thanks, Mr. Haruka," smiled Minako, "Motoki seemed really pleased to see you. And everyone in Tenth District now has you down as a verifiable legend".
I winked at her. "What can I say? Anyway, thank you, kittens, I had a great day". I lifted a hand, and Usagi lifted hers back to me, smiling.
"See you!"
I eased my pace once we had parted, meandering down the street, deep in thought. Kaioh Michiru had been watching me. She must now think of me as a man of many talents, I mused to myself, 'man' being the active word. Damn. The sky parted, and a deeper, syrupy blue came bleeding through, slowly but steadily filling the vast, panoramic basin that surrounded me. The wind washed over me. The last time I'd been out in a Japanese evening this clear, I'd received the news from America of my father's death.
And I had been left without a family, marooned, a lone child on this vast urban island.
-
I glance precociously at the clock above Mr. Abe's messy blackboard from my plastic stool.
"-know it's the last lesson on your first day, but let's get this right, guys. The success of the Orchestral Banquet doesn't mean we're free to slack off now". He raps his knuckles lazily against the board to bring our attention to the music on it, "now, this symbol – here – next to the timescore. What is it? We've seen it before in the Dvořák we've studied. The dissonance of-"
My gaze drifts out the open window. Its light curtains flicker in the swaying wind like an old, juttering film strip. My weightless, frictionless mind flies out on the capricious breeze that stirs those curtains, searching for gull-song to ease my uneasy heart.
How I hate how Takeo senses my loss of interest in him, how could I let myself slip? But then, he has known me for a long time.
Even he, now, can navigate the mirrored veneers I enshroud myself in. And, I admit, I slacken the tight defences for him, just a little, for he is one of the few people I trust.
I raise my violin to nestle it warmly against my bare neck, and fish through my song sheets until I am on the same page as the boy next to me. Mr. Abe raises an arm absent-mindedly as he sifts through his notes, waiting until the class is in place to begin our count-in.
But, it's not just Takeo. The Tenoh boy senses something in me, I know it.
Mr. Abe lets his hand fall and brings it up again to begin the count in. The boy next to me taps his feet. Then, my eyes fall half-heartedly to the blurred sheet on my stand before me that feels as if it's miles away. Play, Michiru, time to play…
The way he watched me as we played together after the recital…no. No, I can't play with him like that again. I let myself go too much when I play. I can only trust Mr. Abe, or some other musician I know I'll never meet again, to play music so intimately with me. But afterwards, he seemed so relaxed, so confident. At the Arcade, he seemed fine. How can he do that? How can he drop his defences so callously? That's how you get hurt: allowing people, strangers, to see you so vulnerable all the time. He's so brazen and careless and rash, he needs…he needs to…contr-
"CONTROL, Ms. Michiru!"
I look up and let my bow hand fall to my side. The whole class is turned, instruments poised in a tense mid-air, gazing at me. I meet Mr. Abe's eyes through those thick glasses. I expect to see anger, but his dark eyes are set softly in brown wrinkles that tell me of disappointment. His wizened old mouth is tight with concern. His hands rest gently at his sides, not tensed nor strained.
"What's wrong, Ms. Michiru?" he eases away the stuffy silence of the waiting classroom. I hear people chatter in the corridor next to us.
"I'm so sorry. I'm feeling quite off today, Mr. Abe. I have no excuse".
"Well," he sighs, his eyes flicking to gaze at empty space in thought, "go and take a walk, get some gentle exercise. Clear your mind. When you get back, I want you to be ready to play, and I mean play". I set my violin down on the desk in front of me, and sidle past the silent, waiting students to my left. Once I reach the end of the row, I walk briskly to the door. I touch onto Mr. Abe's gaze. He knows something's troubling me. He probably knows what. If you know what needs to be done to make a musician uncover their absolute, true best, then you know their heart. As I turn the metal handle, he says, "be back soon".
-
I walk gently and aimlessly across to the far North of the school. The wind lifts and uncovers my neck, then retreats, like a tide, and my hair falls to rest on my shoulders again. I walk along a well-clipped path in the cool grass, my heels patting softly, as voices and sounds drift out from the open windows of the classrooms. Classical music from the art rooms, someone explaining how to plot a graph of exponential growth, many voices conversing in German on the topic of requesting a doctor's appointment by phone. The pat and thud of tennis balls reaches me on a haze of wind, so I continue on my path past the language and business science buildings. I pass through a small copse of well-preserved Japanese Maples, framed with two benches, and into the outdoor sports courts. I walk along past some older girls playing tennis doubles in the fresh afternoon air, observing their stoic concentration through the criss-cross of the tall fencing. I stroll on along the brisk gravel path towards the athletics track that is hidden behind a tall row of oak trees. I emerge between them.
A group of first-year students are practising high jump. And there is one runner.
"Hello, Kaioh Michiru".
The Tenoh boy breathlessly careers to halt in front of me, a loose t-shirt and shorts hanging limply from his sweating body. He doubles over, catching his breath, before righting himself. He drags his long fingers through his blond fringe to un-stick it from his damp forehead, his hair darker now from moisture. His eyes are on mine.
"You're fast".
"Thanks," he breathes. I can smell his fresh hot sweat – a deep, sweet smell. "What are you doing out of lessons?"
"Errands".
"To the Athletics pavillion?" he raises an eyebrow. He is quite right. The only building anywhere near us is a small, dilapidated old hut used for storing equipment.
"I take the scenic route".
"Oh, I see," he gives me a small smile, his hands on his hips, breathing still full and heaving. I look past him to the track.
"What were you doing?"
"800 metres".
"But you were sprinting". I gaze at him incredulously.
"Yes. Why wouldn't I?"
"Because you'd pass out".
"If I want to be the fastest, then that's what I have to do". His eyes are still set firmly in place against mine.
"The way you pummeled up here, I thought you were doing the 100m".
"I guess it's a compliment". He grins a small grin, "what lesson are you supposed to be in?"
"Music, with Mr. Abe".
"Ah, right-"
"-Tenoh! Being allowed to train alone is a privilege! Do not abuse it!"
We are startled by the booming voice of the first-years' coach from across the track.
"All right, then, Kaioh Michiru" he turns back to me, raising his eyebrows slightly, face otherwise blank, "I'll see you about".
"Goodbye".
He turns and jogs to his start-line and I, too, after a moment, turn to return steadily, through the cool afternoon, to the music rooms.
-
Mr. Abe waits for the door to close after the last student before turning to me.
"Ms. Michiru, I need my First Violinist back, if you please". He leans against his desk, expressionless, as the noise of the packed corridor dribbles in from behind the closed door.
"I just don't know, Mr. Abe, I wish…" I look up at him, my hands held tight in front of me.
"You went to America, then on to Belgium… France… then, Italy, correct?"
He raises his eyebrows.
"That's right".
"How many continents will you have to cross, Ms. Michiru," he sighs, pressing two fingers to his forehead, "before you finally acknowledge that you are only running from your problem. You can't fill yourself up by finding some deserted little continental village to hole up and play the violin in".
He looks up at me. I say nothing.
"You only continue with your companionship with Mr. Hideyoshi for his sake, yes?"
He catches my eye again, pausing, before finishing, "I was half under the impression it only began for that".
"Oh".
He sighs again.
"I've been married 37 years, Ms. Michiru. And," he says fondly, reminiscent, "being a drifting, whimsical musician before that, I had my fair share of 'true loves', too. Take it from an old man: I know an empty pairing when I see one".
"He cares about me".
"And you are closed to him," Mr. Abe says slowly, with a hint of bitterness, running his hand through his thinning mane of fine hair, "and, I'm sorry to say, we both know he has a lot of growing up and hurting yet to do before he understands the scope of what it means to care for a girl".
He gives me a dark look of melancholy finality.
"Don't kid me, Ms. Michiru. He will not make you content. Even if he were the perfect image of the ideal mate. Because you close yourself to him. To everyone".
"But I'm hap-"
"No, you're not". He looks straight at me, searching. "You are a beautiful young girl, Ms. Michiru. You're so smart and focused it scares the faculty. They haven't a clue what to do with you. And what do you have, I mean really have? Besides your violin, well, me, Bartolo and Alessandro. 3 old men, Ms. Michiru. 2 of which are on the other side of the world". He casts his hand in a desperate, theatrical wave as his voice raises, brimming, in his continuation.
"I know, Mr. Abe, but the viol-"
"You have no room in your heart for young people, for the people around you," he smiles gently for the first time, quietening, "you need a little more faith in the human race, Ms. Michiru. I'm a teacher, believe me, you kids are a pain in the ass but…there's nothing quite like young blood. The world is full of wonderful young people Michiru. It breaks my heart that you won't open yours to them".
He holds my eyes, smiling a smile that is heavy with a deep, tiresome frustration.
"No one thing can fill you up," he says more quietly now, "the violin, a career, friends, a family, a lover. You can't pour all your hopes into one thing. To put it all into something, that's terribly lonely, Ms. Michiru. And to put it all into someone, that is unfair to them. You have to find it for yourself to put your all into every aspect of life. Devote yourself to everything you do and every friend and lover you have". He gives me wink. "And have a little more faith".
I smile at him.
"In yourself, and in others".
He heaves himself up from against his desk and walks smartly around it, opening a draw and getting the key to his locker out, before walking over to shut the window. The air is still, and no noise now comes from the corridor outside the door.
"Now, I have a very angry wife who was expecting me home…" he looks briefly at his watch, "-now!"
He grins. And winks.
"Come on, Ms. Michiru. Time for us to go home; the cleaners'll be waiting for me to lock up".
-
I lounged on a teak bench in the late afternoon shade of tall tree, as I waited, patiently, watching the redbrick steps of the music building. I sighed, leaning back, letting the swaying dapple shade cool the sweat from my chest and face. I'd changed out of my running gear into a loose white shirt and some navy-blue trousers, but still I felt my body settling and trying to clear itself of an afternoon's vicious exercise.
I glanced at my watch.
What's she doing in there?
As that very thought passed my lazy mind, the grand peeling-blue-painted old door to the music building creaked open as Kaioh Michiru and Abe Toru, the Head of Music, emerged, lightly chatting. He had an old fleece on and swung a set of old brass keys in his worn brown fingers, carrying a battered old trombone case. He adjusted his thick spectacles on the bridge of his small, crooked nose as he chatted to Michiru, who walked smartly down the grand redbrick steps in her regulation Mugen Gaken embellished coat. She looked picture perfect, the ideal student, her body language smart and composed as she held her violin case and school case squarely in front of her as she waited patiently for Mr. Abe to lock up.
They started off and strolled along, nearing me, towards the car-park. I stood up, swinging my gym bag and school case over my shoulder casually. I could now make out their conversation: gentle patter about the upcoming Music exam. Mr. Abe glanced at me, then continued to gaze straight ahead, not thinking much of me. But when Michiru looked up and caught my eye, she halted on the neat brick path. I walked across the grass to meet them.
"Oh, hello, Tenoh," she said, almost expressionless, though I detected curiousity rising gently in her eyes.
"Hello again, Kaioh Michiru". I nodded to Mr. Abe. Michiru turned and caught his gaze again, and he raised his eyebrows, corners of his mouth twitching into the smallest of newborn smiles.
"I'll leave you kids to it," he smiled to me, then turned to her, "and come and see me tomorrow, five minutes at lunch. I want to brief you before Wednesday's Orchestra Practice".
He gave me another nod then continued down the brick path, whistling to himself.
"So that's Mr. Abe?" She turns back to face me.
"Yes".
"Oh, right". I watch him for a leisurely length of time before returning her glazed stare, "who's Bartolo?"
She looks taken aback, her eyes widening, the protective glaze over them dissolving into surprise.
"How do you know Bartolo?"
"I don't, that's why I asked".
"Yes, but where did you find his name and find out that he's connected to me?" she asks, slightly flustered.
I smile slowly, taking my time before continuing.
"I went back to fetch my jacket from the back of the sofa in your dressing room on Saturday night," I drawl, adjusting the weight on the bags over my shoulder, "when I turned on the light there was a crate of 5 bottles of wine on the side. The crate had a note attached with your name on in Roman characters, and it was signed off by a 'Bartolo'".
"Oh". She flushed, ever so, ever so slightly. I grinned at her warmly, wondering if she was usually forgetful. She hadn't seemed the type.
"I assume you want the wine back".
"Well…do you have it?"
"Yeah. I brought it back to my apartment". She looked down, then back up at me. I continued, "come on, I'll drive you to there. I really don't think it's the smartest idea to give it to you in school". I sighed with humour. "Don't worry, I won't go telling the teachers". I gave her a wink.
I looked up at the sky for a moment. The sunshine had been engulfed by a flourish of dark, heavy-looking cloud. I then relaxed and looked back down to Michiru as she lifted her gaze to me. I stood for a moment with a hand slouched in my linen pocket. I waited for a twinge of expression to break the cold mask of her face.
"Ok".
We walked in silence back to my car through the empty, late-afternoon school campus. The stirring of trees which waited anxiously for autumn's descent almost made up for the lack of sound between us. Her small lips were slightly parted. Why were her eyes so cold? It was as if there were a choking fog between us that all but obstructed the image of her eyes. The contagious spark that had quivered, luminous, in that photograph and again on Saturday evening had sank back into the tar-black pools of her eyes. Lost in the strangle-hold of her thoughts, that beautiful glimmer had been swallowed by some terrible, anonymous blackness that sucked, like the blood from an animal, the life from her.
As we approached my 4-seater convertible, I unlocked the doors and slid into the front leather seat, chucking my bags over my shoulder into the seat behind me. Michiru, however, quietly placed herself on the other back seat, placing her bags neatly at her feet and holding her hands in her lap, silently gazing ahead of her.
"Oh, would you like me to move my bags to the front seat, if you're going to sit there?"
She blinked at me, a profound hush blanketing her face. Gazing at me, I felt as if those eyes might well've been but two black circles painted on a brick wall.
"It's alright". I sighed, and placed my hands squarely on the cool leather steering wheel, before slotting the key into the ignition and revving the engine into life.
"Hold on!" I called as I swung the car from the parking space, pummeling into gear as I put my foot down. The car sped between the open gates of the school, kicking up still beds of settled leaves into swirling forms, and then roared onto the main street between two tall office buildings. Glancing in the rear view mirror, I caught a snapshot of Michiru reaching up with her long fingers to pull a long strand of fluttering hair from across her cheeks, replacing it behind her ear. I noticed a navy ribbon nestled in her hair.
"I was told you were present when I won my big race on Sunday". She looked up to meet my glancing eyes, flitting between the road and the rear view mirror.
"Oh, yes. I was just meeting Takeo".
"Right". I smoothly heaved the steering wheel round, curving the body of metal down a fresh street. Had we left the school any later, we would've caught the rush hour. The clouded evening was settling, draining the colour of the day like murky water being wrung from grey laundry. People sat reading newspapers at the tables set up in the streets outside restaurants. Weary clusters of schoolchildren made their plodding way, with an almost theatrical languorous distaste, to their cram schools. Two dogs barked.
"So, how is Takeo?" I asked over the whirr of the engine.
"He's fine, I guess," she murmured, barely audibly, "oh, and well done on your winning".
I raised my eyebrows gently to myself. She was clearly deep in thought. I decided to take the more scenic back route to my apartment, down past the Hikawa Shrine, to avoid any traffic. We sped up out of town, towards the hill at the edge of Tenth District.
"I was in America for two years, that's why I've just started a year late". I decided to make small talk, to be polite, though I was thoroughly uncomfortable about it.
"Yes, Takeo told me".
We sped on a deserted out-of-town road past the entrance to the Shrine, at the foot of the hill.
"You know," I called back to Michiru, "there's the remains of a house at the top of that hill. The overgrown road to it is round the back". She glanced back up at me in the mirror. I continued, "there's nothing left of it, except the foundations and the floor of the ground floor. All the walls, doors, everything is stripped away, completely bare. Except for a sofa. In the middle of it, there's this sofa standing, facing out across the hill back to Tenth District. It's still intact, albeit quite tatty, but on a clear night I used to drive up there and take a few beers and a blanket and throw the blanket over the sofa. You could see the lights of the whole of Tenth District, and quite a bit more still of Tokyo. This was back before I left for America, of course".
Michiru gazed at me in the mirror, entranced. She shifted her hands in her lap, stroking the cotton of her skirt. A breeze snatched us as I swung back into a residential street and pulled into a bay infront of my apartment block. The engine died and we were left engulfed in a thick silence. After a short moment of still, which Michiru seemed content with remaining in, I opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement, slamming the door with deliberation behind me. I opened my mouth, thinking of asking if she wanted to come inside, but thought better of it.
"Wait here". She nodded quietly.
I returned five minutes later, panting a little, onto the street, the crate of red wine in my hand. Michiru looked up, face still, a reflection of a statue.
"Oh, thank you, Tenoh". She clicked the latch on her door, and stepped out into the road, reaching across the leather seats to collect all the bags before closing the door gently. She stepped quietly round the car onto the pavement by me, dropping my bags at my feet.
"Are you sure you don't want a ride home? There's a lot to carry". I handed her the heavy crate. She swung her violin case over her shoulder without a word and carried her school case in her other hand. Once she was finished adjusting herself, she stepped closer to me. Those eyes, lost in thought again. I thought of two black caskets holding blacker ashes within. Then I thought of my parents. The wind lapped at my hair with a swift hunger.
"I'll see you tomorrow. Thank you," she said slowly, as if she were calculating each syllable. I gave her a small smile, glancing down then back up at her, running a hand absent mindedly through my hair. Satisfied that all had been said, I bowed my shoulders, before bending over to pick up my bags. I turned and walked to the door. As I snatched a final look across my shoulder, I saw her still standing, gazing into space.
I heaved my weight against the heavy commercial glass door, and strode across the deserted lobby to the even emptier elevator.
Once I was back in my room, I threw my bags onto the sofa, crashing down onto it, next to them. I sighed deeply, letting my eyes sink shut, trying to conjure up some logical ordering of thought.
Then, suddenly, the shrill, electric buzz of the intercom flooded the room.
-
I know it's a shorter chapter, but I wanted to get this up before I leave on for a break. I won't have access to a PC or laptop unfortunately while I'm away, so it may be a while before I can update. Maybe I'll try punching out a mini-chapter just to keep your appetites up when I get back, before working on a good-sized chapter :) I've got lots planned ahead for the coming installments, and I'm really excited to get to work on them and get all these ideas buzzing around in my head onto the computer, so please be patient with me! Oh, and to tears of the soul: good guess!
Thank you very much for reading! x