The Seventh Priest

à Mlle D. : special epilogue ;)

Summary: "I'll keep that 'probably' in me."

Disclaimer: I just own the plot.

The Seventh Priest

EPILOGUE

Probably

"I'M GOING BACK TO HONOLULU," I SAID. "It's not like I don't like it here in Japan, but after such good, long years here I thin I'll have to get out of the shell for some fresh challenges; this library can't lock me here for ever. I'll eventually have to go somewhere else, I need to keep moving. I need to lead an active life. I think the good place to start is the place where I was born."

He nodded.

Outside, the streets were bathed in summer sun. The air was warm and heavy, the kind of air that would make your shirt clings to your body after a ten-minute walk. All the dreams, the history I'd read, the warnings, they were alive as long-lost dreams. I approached the window then unlocked it. The smell or dried leaves and dry earth went in.

Then I looked at Kaoru, the new assistant who'd been here since the last days of spring and said:

"He's soon to be the new proprietor. Mr. Kaiba."

Kaoru was shocked. She wanted to say something, but she couldn't. Then, with her eyes, she asked me, as if refusing to believe her own: He is the Kaiba?

"Yes," I said. "The real, flesh-and-blood Kaiba Seto."

Kaoru was his big admirer. She had his pictures and magazine cutouts on the wall of her room, in her diary, as bookmarks for her novels and college textbooks…. When he greeted her she was pretty much stupefied. He must've made her feel very ill-at-ease, that was the common effect he evoked in people at first meeting, including me. He was the type of person who, regardless of his smile and calm gestures, would make you feel uneasy just by looking at him straight in the eyes. It was almost as if he had kept for himself so many judgments that were to be left unspoken.

"I've spoken to 's eldest son. " I said. "He decided that the rare books are to be sold as valuables. They worth dimes, you can see."

He nodded.

"I've seen the price," spoken as easy as if he was just telling me that it was summer already.

"I may have to cut several unnecessary expenses for the next two or three months," he continued, "However, the fight is worthy enough." He smiled.

"Mr. Yamamoto would've been glad," I said. "Besides, Kaoru here has volunteered to help; starting at four until the closing time. After you own it, of course, you're free to alter the schedules."

"I see," he said. "When are you going to leave?"

"Tomorrow, catching the midnight flight," I said. "So to say, this will be my last night in Japan.

"Come," I continued. "I'll show you around."

I WOULD NEVER FORGET THE SCENT of those dusted wooden shelves and books. The discreet scent of tobacco that had since long left his place but for that night, as if the library was telling me its final goodbye, the scent was there. It seemed to me that the time had slightly reversed its slow, trying to keep me here.

For a long time the library had become a part of me, had become me. Most people have such sentiment before they leave the place they once loved, they had once known well enough. The sense of attachment, it seems, would stretch its hands one last time before a separation. All former owners understand that.

During the tour he was mostly quiet. He inspected every corner with care, not suspicion. I knew that he wouldn't plan to change anything. He wouldn't even change the name. That, until I showed him the piano room in the attic. He approached the piano right away, as if being pulled by some kind of force, then tested the sound.

"It has been here since the sixties," I said.

He said nothing, sat down on the bench then launched right away into the first five bars of "Träumerei".

"Why don't you play the rest of the song?" I asked.

And he continued.

Bathed in scotch-colored light filtering through the wide-opened windows, the room seemed as if it had the life of its own. This was one of the last songs Mr. Yamamoto played before he got hospitalized for lung cancer. I looked at the unmoved ashtray and cigarettes in it; all of a sudden I felt as if they were newly put there, that the scent was there again, and Mr. Yamamoto was there, playing the piano in front of me.

At the end of the song, I said:

"You can take the piano for free."

He turned to me abruptly. Shocked.

"The piano and the library are one," I said. "I simply can't imagine the idea of making a fortune out of it. Besides, I don't want to make money out of my only connection with Mr. Yamamoto; a connection I'd gotten for free."

After a while, I added:

"Mr. Yamamoto used to spend his days here, if not in his private office reading, playing the piano, cigarette dangling from his lips…. Look," I pointed at the top of the piano. "I didn't even move the ashtray when he died. The cigarettes neither."

"A bit heavy on the eccentric side, aren't you?" he asked with a smile.

"Hey, it's good to have at least an anchor to anything; the past, a person whom you want to remember, even the future. It feels good to realize those connections are there, waiting for you."

"I see," he said. "I'll play another piece for you, my favorite piece, as a token of appreciation for getting this thing for free; how does that sound to you?"

I nodded.

The next piece he played was Chopin's famed piece, "Fantaisie-Impromptu".

"Anyway, I plan to spend the night here, if you don't mind." I said when he'd finished playing." I just want to make sure that the goodbye is proper enough."

He chuckled. I'd seen him several times like that, chuckling, but that was by far the most graceful one. The chuckle without any weight attached to it.

"Honestly you don't even have to ask," he said. "This place is yours until tomorrow."

IT WAS A SOMBER, LONG NIGHT, probably by far the longest one in my life. Of course I didn't sleep. I wanted to make sure that my last night here was spent with my eyes opened. I would stare at the long goodbye in the face. This time, I thought, I don't want to run away from it. Not for this separation or the other one that is to come. Not now.

A bit past midnight, he came to the library.

"I want to be here during the first seconds of my ownership," he told me. "I want to see the library in its most beautiful state, after midnight."

"My favorite time of the day. Time moves slightly slower at this time of the day."

"I agree," he said. "I always want to believe that."

Silence.

I noticed him. He had on a light linen shirt that exposed his long neck, a pair of light brown chinos that were cuffed at the ankles and a pair of white patent leather shoes. His hands shoved into the pockets. On the right wrist, a slim Omega watch. Even in a look that was far less stern than usual, he still had that distant feel about him. Me, I had on a light tribal-patterned harem pants, a cropped black corset top and a lace jacket, also in black. Tan moccasins to complete the look. Our outfits, I thought, were the ones destined for summer.

An idea crossed my mind. I said:

"Say, Kaiba—"

"Seto, please."

"Alright, Seto, say; would you be game for a pointless walk after midnight and cheap beers?"

He thought about it for a while then nodded.

THE CAR WAS A VINTAGE CITROËN 2CV, custom-painted in gold. "Makes me feel human," he said. "Limousines and Maseratis strip you off such sense."

He parked the car in front of a crowded game center, that moment I knew that was the starting point he'd chosen for our 'pointless walk after midnight'. I smiled to myself. Before he stepped out of the car he put on a different pair of glasses; they had thin silver wires surrounding the narrow oval lenses. Walking casually like that, with a toned-down look, despite the almost obvious star aura about him, he managed to blend in with the fashionable crowds well enough.

"I wish Pierrot still opens at this time of the day," I said.

"Jazz and the night, huh," he said. Then after a while: "I know a bar."

"Not something you would call très chic, but it's a place where, I'd heard somewhere, DJ Taku Takahashi loves to visit whenever he feels like being human."

We walked the streets. We saw the lights, the crowds with platinum-blonde and even blue-dyed hairs. The city had its own rhythm at this time of the day, despite the songs that could be heard playing across the streets.

In the end we didn't go to that bar he'd mentioned about earlier. We stopped by a small bar right in front of a Seven Eleven. It was a bar packed with young crowds wearing suede summer boots, fringed bags, and tribal-patterned vests and shirts.

The song that was playing in there was the original version of "September".

The song he liked.

WE ORDERED FOR EACH TWO CANS OF CORONA. The music in the background was another throwback to the past: "I Can't Go for That". He smoked his cigarettes, occasionally drumming his fingers on the counter following the beats. That was the type of person who made a glass of beer looked like a glass of Chardonnay. He certainly wasn't born for cheap beers and messy bars. Looking at such contradiction, I felt as if I was inside a Yoko Ogawa novel.

The young bartender recognized him, despite the dim lights. He asked:

"Why did you decline the movie offer? Those young actors would kill to be inside that kind of movie. Based on a Murakami novelette, think about it, the offer was pretty darn amazing."

"Some things in your life you rather not have," he said coolly.

The young bartender shook off the answer and handed Seto a magazine cutout for him to sign. "I'll sign it," he said. "If you wouldn't tell anybody else about my coming here, at least not when we are still here." He looked at me.

Of course, he agreed. When he got the signature, he shoved the picture back into his wallet, then pretended as if he had just been talking to a regular customer.

We stayed there until a bit past two then took a walk in a park nearby.

Most lights were off. This, I was sure, was the time where dawn struggles to leave the presence of the night behind.

MY HEAD WAS LIGHT. I wasn't a good drinker; two cans were enough to put me in a good mood.

We were sitting on a bench. He was smoking. All of a sudden I felt a great need to cry; probably being half-drunk and all, then the scent of Camel. What would Mr. Yamamoto think? I asked myself. Tomorrow, at this time I'd be onboard a plane to California. I would soon see my aunt after six years.

Soon all sensation I was feeling at this moment would turn into clusters of memories.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Two forty-three, "he said, letting out a leisurely puff.

"Why two forty-three, out of all times…."

He chuckled.

My head started to throb. I was really a bad drinker. On the other hand, the two cans held no influence over him. He remained right as rain.

"Hey, Seto…."

"Yes?"

"You never struck me as the type of person who would get married." I even wondered why I said that. Then as if possessed, I added: "You're probably too cold for that. 'Too hot for bed, too cold for lovers'—ever heard that?"

At this time, I felt that losing my head would even be better.

"Yeah," he said. His answer was unexpectedly calm as if he was talking to himself. "When I was in the university, there was this person, Jounouchi, who labeled me with that phrase."

I must've mumbled something in response. That, of course, wasn't a thing I could hear clearly.

"Say; is it the incapability to love or the incapability of letting go, the cause of such case?"

I know I should really, really stop talking right away, before I made myself look like a regular dingbat, but talking was something I couldn't help, so was leaning on his shoulder. Not that I wanted to, it was because I couldn't feel my neck. And even if it was there alright, it certainly wasn't connected to the head anymore instead of supporting it.

I continued:

"Me, I'd rather belong to the second group, at least even if it's a make-believe, it's better…. I mean, two persons would eventually part, right? There are only two types of parting; if not by death then in life. Both are hard. I can't stand separations. Never."

Silence.

Then he smiled. I only saw it from the corner of my eyes, but I was sure that he was smiling. He lit a new cigarette. The scent affected me even more. A little bit more of this and I'd burst out crying.

"What's your take?" I asked.

"I'd go for the second, too," he said. "That is something I've been thinking about for years, although it never bothers me even once."

Dim lights, summer wind.

In that strange comfort, I fell asleep.

IT MUST'VE BEEN ABOUT FIVE WHEN HE WOKE ME UP.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

I nodded. I wasn't so sure, but I nodded nonetheless.

The streets were almost empty, most lights were out. The houses were still asleep. Finally the game center in front of which he'd parked the car was no more than a dark building with its doors covered by iron shutters.

During the drive to the library, I fell asleep again although soon woke up right before the car made its last turn to reach the library. The drunkenness must've been toned down already, although my head was still light.

When the car stopped in front of the library, I thanked him then got out of the car. He opened the windows of my side. From the gap I could see that he was slightly lost in thought.

It wasn't until a while later that he finally decided to turn off the engine then stepped out of the car as well.

I smiled. Last night, the talk in the park, they now seemed to me like vague dreams.

"Kisara…."

He spoke my name in such low voice that at first I doubted whether it wasn't just me imagining it.

It actually sounded good in my ears.

"If one day we meet again, by chance, and in that moment I am still alone—"

"We'll get married, yeah…." I said. The words were slipping out of my lips uncontrollably. But it didn't bother me.

"Probably," I added.

He approached me. His steps were light, surely those were his regular, unburdened steps. I always liked the way he walked, the way he looked at people with skepticism, the way he held his cigarettes by the bottom of his fingers…. Funny how one starts looking at the other person as if he was a whole new being when a separation is at its peak.

All of a sudden you'll see that person using whole new eyes; as if that person is newly-made and has just being placed there in front of you.

"Probably. There is a phrase I remember: 'Probably is a word you may find south of the border. But never, ever—"

"West of the sun'. " I completed the phrase. Then added:

"I like that book."

"Yeah," he said, smiling.

"I'd keep that 'probably' in me, yes," I said assuredly, returning the smile.

He nodded then headed back toward the car. Unlocking it, he got behind the drive.

I waved, for one last time, before entering the library.

THE LIBRARY IN THE MORNING.

Hearable silence, half-dark interior bathed in bluish lights of the late dawn. I climbed the staircase to collect my things upstairs.

That was then I heard "Träumerei" echoing in the thin air; such soulful, soft, distant sound as if it had since long been suspended there.

The moment seemed to me as if I was walking the corridors of the past, when Mr. Yamamoto was still alive. The music came from the piano room. The entire scene was now at daylight, bright and blurred, as if I was inside an old dream.

There he was, Mr. Yamamoto, playing the song that he had taught me during the final days of his life. In that dreamlike scene he smiled at me. I smiled back. I approached the piano. He continued playing, still smiling at me.

Three last bars.

Then two.

One.

The scene was early dawn again.

I was playing the piano, completing the final chord for him. I had been playing the piano myself. I played it for the two goodbyes.

Five minutes to six.

I collected my things from the cupboard. I gazed at the room for the last time.

"Goodbye," I said to the library then to the separations that preceded them.

Probably.

It was there, my story with him, and would always be there, looking at me in the eyes the way the Priest looked into the eyes of his lover who died at daylight.

My favorite ending.