Strange Weather in Tokyo

The Cherry Blossom Party, Part 1

I WAS APPREHENSIVE when Sensei announced, “I received a postcard from Ms. Ishino.”

Ms. Ishino was still the art teacher at our high school. When I was a student, she had probably still been in her mid-thirties. She always used to whisk through the corridors wearing her artist’s smock and with her luxuriantly black and wavy hair pulled to the back. Slender, she seemed to brim with vigor. Equally popular with girls as well as boys, her classroom after school would always be chock-full of the quirky and peculiar students who were in the art club.

Ms. Ishino would be shut up in the art prep room, and when the aroma of coffee drifted out to the classroom, the art students knocked on her door.

“What is it?” Ms. Ishino would answer in her husky voice.

“Please, Ms. Ishino, let us have a coffee klatch,” one of the art students would say through the door. He spoke in a deliberately bewildered tone.

“All right, all right,” Ms. Ishino would say, opening the door and handing over the entire siphon full of coffee to the students. Those allowed to partake in the coffee klatch were the club president and vice president, along with several other seniors. Lowerclassmen had not yet earned the right. Ms. Ishino would emerge from the prep room to drink coffee with them, clasping in both hands an oversized Mashiko-ware mug that she had fired herself in a friend’s kiln. Then she would straighten her shoulders a bit and take a look around at the art club students’ work. She would sit back down in a chair and finish her coffee. She never added cream. Students would bring their own non-dairy creamer or packets of sugar, because Ms. Ishino always took her coffee black.

A classmate of mine who was in the art club had raptly proclaimed, Someday I hope to be like Ms. Ishino… So I had peeked into her classroom a few times out of curiosity. Nobody seemed to care if people who weren’t in the art club hung out there too. The place was warm, reeking of paint thinner and a hint of cigarette smoke.

“She’s so cool, isn’t she?” my friend would say, and I’d mumble and nod, Yeah, well. But the truth was that I hated things like “handmade Mashiko-ware.” I didn’t feel particularly strongly one way or another about Ms. Ishino’s appearance, just her big hand-thrown coffee mug. I didn’t hold anything against Mashiko-ware in and of itself, per se.

I took Ms. Ishino’s art class my first year in high school, but that was it. I have a vague memory of doing charcoal sketches of plaster figures and watercolor still lifes. My grades were below average. While we were students there, Ms. Ishino had married the social studies teacher. She was probably in her mid-fifties now.

“It’s an invitation to the cherry-blossom-viewing party,” Sensei said a few moments later.

I see, I replied. The cherry blossom party?

“It’s an annual event. They do it every year, a few days before school starts in April, on the embankment in front of the school. Tsukiko, how would you like to join me at this year’s cherry blossom party?” Sensei asked.

I see, I repeated myself. Cherry blossom parties are nice. But there was nothing nice about the tone of my voice. Sensei, however, paid no attention as he stared fixedly at the postcard.

“Ms. Ishino has always had such fine penmanship,” he said. Then Sensei carefully unzipped his briefcase and slid the postcard into one of the compartments. I watched absentmindedly as he zipped it back shut again.

“Don’t forget, it’s on April 7,” Sensei reminded me as he waved from the bus stop.

I’ll try to remember, I replied, as if I were a student again. It was somewhat of a careless phrase, insecure and childish.

NO MATTER HOW many times I heard it, I could not get used to the name Mr. Matsumoto. That was, of course, what everyone called Sensei. His full name was Mr. Harutsuna Matsumoto. Apparently the other teachers called each other “Mr.” or “Ms.” Mr. Matsumoto. Mr. Kyogoku. Ms. Honda. Mr. Nishikawahara. Ms. Ishino. And so on.

Even though Sensei had invited me, I had no interest in going to the cherry blossom party. I figured I would get out of it by making some excuse about being very busy at work or something. But the day of the party, Sensei showed up outside my apartment to pick me up. It was very unusual behavior for Sensei. Unusual, but nevertheless, there he was—standing tall, wearing a spring jacket, and carrying his briefcase.

“Tsukiko, did you bring something to sit on?” He stood outside my building asking a series of questions. He made no move to come up to my place on the second floor. When I saw Sensei’s smiling face, as he waited for me with complete assurance, I simply couldn’t bring myself to make excuses. Resigned, I hastily stuffed a stiff plastic sheet into a bag, threw on whatever clothes I found randomly scattered about, and slipped into the same sneakers I had worn on the mushroom hunt with Satoru and Toru (and had yet to clean off) before bounding down the stairs.

The scene on the school’s embankment was already in full swing. Current teachers along with retired teachers, as well as a number of former students, had laid mats and sheets over the entire bank, lined up bottles of saké and beer, and set out food they had brought, and everyone was laughing merrily. It was difficult to tell where the center of the party was. After Sensei and I put down our sheet and greeted the people around us, still more people continued to arrive, each of them laying out mats they had brought. The cherry blossom party guests seemed to steadily spread out, like a plant’s leaves unfurling as its bud blooms.

The space between Sensei and me was quickly filled by an elderly gentleman, Mr. Settsu, and then the space between Mr. Settsu and me was occupied by a young teacher, Ms. Makita. She was joined by other former students—two women named Shibasaki and Kayama and a man named Onda—but I soon lost track of who was whom.

Before I knew it, Sensei was standing next to Ms. Ishino, talking animatedly as he drank saké. He was holding a skewer of chicken with teriyaki sauce that he had bought at a storefront in the shopping district. Any other time, Sensei would stubbornly insist on salted skewers when he ate yakitori. But apparently he was capable of flexibility under certain circumstances, I thought, growing reproachful as I sipped saké by myself in a corner.

From atop the embankment, the schoolyard grounds seemed to reflect back in white. The school was quiet, the new term having not yet begun. The buildings and the schoolyard were unchanged since I had been a student here. But the cherry trees that were planted all around had grown considerably taller.

Suddenly I heard someone say, “Hey, Omachi, not married yet?” and I glanced up. Without my noticing, a middle-aged man had come to sit near me. Looking me in the eye now, he took a sip of saké from his paper cup.

“I’ve been married and divorced seventeen times, but I’m single now,” I quipped in response. His face was familiar but I couldn’t place him. He was dumbstruck at first but then he let out a chuckle.

“Well, then, that’s quite a remarkable life you’ve had.”

“Not at all.”

Deep within his laughing face, there was a faint semblance of what he had looked like in high school. That’s right, we had definitely been in the same class. I remembered how when he laughed his face seemed to change completely from when it was in repose. But what was his name? It was on the tip of my tongue, yet I couldn’t recall it.

“As for me, I was only married and divorced the one time,” he said, still chuckling.

I had drunk about half of the saké in my paper cup. There was a flower petal floating in it.

“It wasn’t easy for either one of us.” Even through his quiet laughter, a warmth showed in his expression. I remembered his name—Takashi Kojima. We had been in the same homeroom for our first two years in high school. Both of us had similar numbers for attendance call, so that when they assigned seats according to these numbers, we were always seated near each other.

“I’m sorry for making such a strange joke before,” I apologized.

Kojima just shook his head and laughed again.

“Omachi, you were always like that.”

“Like what?”

“The type who would say something outlandish with a totally straight face.”

Was that right? I never would have thought of myself as the type who made jokes or witty remarks. I was more likely the type who spent recess in a quiet corner of the schoolyard, sometimes tossing back an errant ball.

“Kojima, what do you do now?”

“I work in an office. And you?”

“Me too.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

There was a slight breeze. Even though the cherry blossoms were not yet in full bloom, every now and then the wind would catch one or two petals and send them scattering.

“So, you know, I was married to Ayuko,” Takashi Kojima muttered after a brief silence.

“You were?”

Ayuko was the girl who had said she wanted to grow up to be like Ms. Ishino, the same classmate who had brought me to the art room after school. Now that I thought about it, Ayuko was sort of like Ms. Ishino. She was petite and full of energy, but she could also appear quite timid. She must have been aware of it too. It was this quality that attracted lots of boys. Ayuko was always getting “love letters” or being chatted up. But she never responded to any of them. At least not openly. There were rumors that she was dating a college boy or a businessman, but whenever she and I would walk home together from school, getting soft-serve ice cream or just chatting, I never had the slightest impression any of that was true.

“I had no idea,” I said to Kojima now.

“Hardly anyone did.”

Kojima said that they had gotten married while they were still students at university, but that they had split up after three years.

“That’s a pretty short marriage.”

“Ayuko insisted on getting married, she didn’t want us just to live together.”

Kojima had failed his entrance exams and started university a year later, so Ayuko had entered the workforce a year before him. She fell in love with her boss and, after much ado, they finally got divorced. Kojima relayed the story dispassionately.

Now that I thought about it, Kojima and I had gone on a date once. It was during the last term of our junior year in high school, I remembered. We went to a movie. We met up at a bookstore, walked to the cinema, and used tickets that Kojima had bought in advance. “I can pay you,” I had said, but Kojima had replied, “It’s okay, I got the tickets from my brother.”

I don’t think I realized that Kojima probably didn’t have a brother until the next day.

After we saw the movie, we walked through a park, talking about our reaction to the film. Kojima had been rather impressed by a trick that was employed in the film. I, on the other hand, had been rather impressed by the various hats worn by the lead actress. We came upon a kiosk selling crepes, and Kojima asked if I wanted one. When I answered no, he had grinned and said, “Good, I’m not one for sweets anyway.” Instead, we got hot dogs and yakisoba that we washed down with colas.

And now I find out after graduation that, in fact, Kojima is quite fond of sweets.

“How is Ayuko?” I asked.

“She’s fine,” he nodded. “She married her boss, and they live in a three-story prefab home, it seems.”

“Prefab, huh?” I murmured, and Kojima repeated, “Yup, prefab.”

A strong breeze blew up, and the petals swirled around the two of us.

“So, you never married?” he asked me.

No—I mean, I don’t know anything about prefab housing, I replied. Kojima laughed. We drained our cups of saké, petals and all.

“TSUKIKO, COME HERE,” Sensei called. Ms. Ishino was beckoning me as well. There was a hint of excitement in Sensei’s voice. I pretended not to hear him, to be engrossed in conversation with Kojima.

Even when Kojima said, “Someone’s calling you,” I only made a vague reply. Kojima’s cheeks were flushed red. I never really liked Mr. Matsumoto, he said quietly. What about you?

I don’t really remember him, I said, and Kojima nodded. That’s right, you were always a million miles away. Here in body, not in spirit, as they say.

Sensei and Ms. Ishino beckoned me for the umpteenth time. Right at that moment I happened to be facing in their direction as I tried to fix my windblown hair. I couldn’t help but catch Sensei’s gaze.

“Tsukiko, come over here with us,” Sensei said loudly. It was the same tone of voice that I recognized from the classroom in my high school days. His tone was different when we sat next to each other, drinking together. I turned my back to him, sulkily.

“You know, I had a bit of a crush on Ms. Ishino,” Kojima said blithely. His cheeks were now an even deeper shade of crimson.

“Yeah, Ms. Ishino was certainly popular,” I said, trying not to sound emotional.

“Ayuko was really crazy about her.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess that’s why I fell for her too.”

That was just like Kojima, to fall in line. I poured some saké into his cup. Kojima gave a little sigh and took a tiny sip.

“She’s as pretty as ever.”

“She is.” No emotion. Or so I tried to tell myself.

“It’s hard to believe she must be in her fifties.”

“You’re right.” Must not get emotional.

Sensei was engaged in a lively conversation with Ms. Ishino (of that I was sure, despite the fact that my back was turned to them). I no longer heard him calling my name. The sun was starting to set. There were numerous lanterns lit. The cherry blossom party grew merrier and merrier as here and there people were breaking into song.

“Do you want to go somewhere else for a drink?” Kojima asked.

Right next to us, a group of students who had graduated a few years before us started singing, “I used to run after rabbits on that mountain.”

Hmm, what do you think? I murmured. But the same moment one of the women’s voices rang out in a fine vibrato, and Kojima leaned forward, saying, What? I missed that.

What do you think? I repeated, loudly this time. He then pulled his face back and smiled.

“Now I remember, you always used to say things like that—‘What do you think?’ Or ‘I’m not sure…’ Was that right?”

“And then you say that with such conviction.”

You are convinced of your uncertainty! Kojima said amiably.

“Shall we go?” I said, drawing out the words.

“Let’s get out of here. Let’s get a drink somewhere else.”

It was completely dark, and the group beside us had finished singing the third verse of “My Hometown.” Every now and then, amid the cacophony, snippets of Sensei and Ms. Ishino’s conversation reached my ears. Sensei’s voice sounded somewhat more strident than when he spoke to me, while Ms. Ishino’s still had that familiar huskiness, although I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, only the interrogatives and inflections at the end of their sentences.

“Let’s go,” I said, standing up. I brushed the sand off the plastic sheet and carelessly crumpled it up while Kojima stared at me.

“Omachi, you’re a bit of a brute, huh?” he asked.

Yes, I am, I replied, and Kojima laughed again. He had a warmhearted laugh. I peered through the darkness in Sensei’s direction but I couldn’t see very well.

Let me have a go, Kojima said as he took the sheet from my hands and neatly folded it back up for me.

Where to? I asked as Kojima and I turned away from our places at the cherry blossom party and started down the stairs that led from the embankment to the street.