Vol 2 Chapter 1

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3

My world is the coolest.

Rok.u.meikan Private University, located in Kinugasa, in Kita

Ward of Kyoto, has a total of three dining halls. Of the three,

the Zonshinkan Chika Dining Hall (lovingly abbreviated to

“Zonchi”) was thought to be the most lively. This was

probably because it had an extensive menu, and it was right

next door to the co-op bookstore.

That day, since I had no cla.s.s during second period, I went

straight to the Zonshinkan Chika after first period. I’d had no

breakfast that morning—I’d accidentally overslept by a whole

hour—so I thought I might grab an early lunch.

“Man, it’s empty at this hour. Risky business,” I mumbled

to myself, doubting all the while that I was using the phrase

“risky business” correctly. I picked up a tray.

Now, what to eat?

I’m no foodie, so usually I just eat whatever without much

of a fuss. Be it spicy or sweet, I say bring it on. But lately

things had been just a little different.

It was only a month ago that I’d spent a h.e.l.l of a week in a

place where I’d been served three gourmet meals a day.

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Now, as an aftereffect, my tongue was still stuck in Snootyville.

It had been a whole month since anything had made me

say, “Wow, this is good.” Every time I ate some-thing, it

always felt like something was missing, like some key ingredient

was lacking.

It wasn’t enough of a problem to merit being called a problem,

but I sure was sick of feeling that way. As far as solutions,

I had already thought of two.

The first was fairly simple: Just eat tasty food.

“Can’t hope for that to happen in a school dining hall.”

But that first suggestion was impossible to follow. Not, anyway,

without heading back to that strange, isolated little island.

I won’t say I was totally against the idea, but I certainly

had my reservations.

“So that’s no good.”

Yes, I was talking to myself.

This left one other possible measure, and it was a strongarm

tactic. It was the “beat the child who doesn’t listen” tactic.

Most problems in the world are solved by either giving or

taking.

I made my way to the donburi corner and placed an order.

“Excuse me. Large kimchee bowl, please. No rice.”

The lunch lady gave me a quizzical expression and said,

“That’s just kimchee, son,” but she dished it out all the same.

As if it were nothing, she plopped it in front of me, displaying

an admirable degree of professionalism.

A big, heaping, mountainous bowl of kimchee. I doubt

there was a single tongue in this world tough enough to chow

all that down and still preserve its sense of taste. I nodded

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with satisfaction, placed the bowl on my tray, and settled the

bill.

The dining hall was so empty that I could hardly decide

where to sit. In another hour, the place would be filled up

with students who had cut out of second period early. I was

never a fan of crowds, so I considered myself under a time

limit. I took a seat in the corner.

“Down the hatch,” I muttered, and took the first bite. . . .

This. Was. Awful.

I really had to eat a whole bowl of this stuff? Wasn’t this

what was commonly known as suicidal behavior? What cruel

fate had brought me to this pa.s.s? What had I done?

“Is this divine retribution?”

I guess they also say reap what you sow.

From then on, I wielded my chopsticks in silence. If I kept

on talking to myself, people would start thinking I was a

weirdo. And besides, it’s poor table manners to talk while

you’re eating.

And then, just as I hit my limit—my entire head had gone

numb from the tip of the tongue up, I didn’t know what the

h.e.l.l I was doing, or, for that matter, who I was, or what the

word who meant, and even what the word meant meant . . .

“Yo.”

She sat in the chair across from me.

“Pull that tray back a little, will you?” she said. Then she

pushed my tray toward me and placed her own tray in the

newly opened s.p.a.ce. Her tray was laden with a plate of

spaghetti carbonara, some tuna-and-kelp salad, and a bonus

fruit dessert for a grand total of three courses.

Oh, how bourgeois.

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I looked to my right, then to my left. The dining hall was

empty as ever. You could practically call it deserted. So why

had she decided to eat her spaghetti directly across from me?

Probably some kind of dare.

“Oh my G.o.d, what is that?! It’s all kimchee!” she exclaimed

at the shocking sight of my lunch. “Wow! You’re

eating a whole entire bowl of kimchee!”

She was wide-eyed, her hands up in the air like she was doing

a banzai cheer. Maybe that was what she was doing, or maybe

she was surrendering. There was also the possibility that she

was just Muslim. Any of these was fine by me, but in reality,

she was probably just surprised.

Her shoulder-length hair had a reddish tint and was done

up in a sort of bob. Her clothes were nothing out of the

ordinary. They were ultra-plain, following the style of so

much of the Rok.u.meikan student body. All of a sudden, when

she sat down, she seemed much shorter—but then I realized

most of her height had come from her extra-tall London

boots.

She had a young face, so I couldn’t tell if she was my senior

or a peer. Judging by her demeanor alone, it would have

seemed plausible that she was my junior, except that being

that I was a freshman, that was pretty much impossible.

“Hey. Y’know, if you don’t respond, I’ll get lonely and

stuff.” She stared at me with puppy-dog eyes.

“Right,” I finally said. “Who are you?”

I was pretty sure this was our first encounter. But I’d

learned one thing in the past month: This weird little pocket

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of s.p.a.ce known as a “university” had an unusually large

number of people who were friendly and genuine. These

strange people would strike up conversations with you like

you had been their close friend for the past ten years—even if

you had never seen them before in your life. For a guy like me

who’s bad at even remembering personal encounters, this made

things difficult from time to time.

And surely this girl was another one of those types. Fearing

the ha.s.sle of having to deal with a club invitation or,

worse, some religious thing, I went ahead and posed the above

question.

Doing so launched her into an over-the-top shocked pose.

"Hwa?!” she said. “Oh my G.o.d! You mean you forgot? You’ve

forgotten? You freaking forgot?! Ikkun, that’s so cold!”

Huh.

Judging from her reaction, it seemed this was not our first

encounter.

“Ohhh. I am shocked. But what are you gonna do, right?

Yeah, nothing, I guess. You’ve just got a bad memory after all,

right? Well, might as well introduce myself again.” She flashed

both hands at me and gave a full-faced grin. “I’m Aoii

Mikoko!”

This might prove to be a painful encounter.

Whether it was our first encounter or not, this was, to be

sure, my first impression of Aoii Mikoko.

Her story was simple. Mikoko-chan and I were cla.s.smates.

Not only were we taking the same core subjects, but we were

also in the same foreign-language cla.s.s. We had met face-to-

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face a number of times, and were in the same group for the

cla.s.s training camp before Golden Week. We had even been

paired up before in English cla.s.s.

“Man . . . from this conversation alone, I must seem like a

total nut for not remembering you.”

“I think you are a total nut!” She laughed lightheartedly.

To be able to laugh so cheerfully after someone had entirely

forgotten her existence took a special kind of vacuousness. I

figured she was probably a pretty nice girl after all.

“Normally, I’d find it pretty disturbing that you forgot me

like that. Or rather, I’d be p.i.s.sed. But that’s just how you are,

right? Like, you don’t forget the stuff that’s really important,

but you forget normal stuff,” she said.

“Well, I can’t argue with that.”

She was exactly right. One time I had even forgotten if I

was right- or left-handed, and found myself in quite a bind

when I actually tried to sit down and have a meal. To top it all

off, when all was said and done, I turned out to be ambidextrous.

"Okay, and what’s happening with you?” I asked. “Why

aren’t you in cla.s.s?”

“Cla.s.s? Well, the thing about that is . . .”

For some reason she seemed abnormally happy. But I got

the feeling that “abnormally happy” was her default setting.

To be honest, even though I’d seen her before, I still could not

remember what she was like normally. But either way, it was

hard to be put off by this smiley-faced girl.

“I’m playing hooky.”

“Freshmen really ought to go to cla.s.s,” I said.

“Aw, come on, it’s boring. Totally boring. What was it

again? Oh, yeah, my economics cla.s.s. It’s just a nonstop

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stream of jargon. And it’s like a math cla.s.s. I’m a humanities

person! And you’re skipping cla.s.s too!”

“I don’t have a cla.s.s right now.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Fridays I only have a first period and a fifth period.”

She flung her hands wildly in the air again. “Doesn’t that kind

of suck? That’s like six hours of boredom.”

“Boredom isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

“Hm, I thought boredom was practically the definition of

‘a bad thing.’ Different strokes, I guess.” She began winding

the spaghetti around her fork as she spoke. Unable to successfully

get it all on the utensil, it soon became a matter of

trial and error. I reckoned it would be awhile before the food

actually reached her mouth. Before I knew it, she had put the

fork down and switched to chopsticks. So much for stick-toitiveness.

“Say . . .” I said.

“Hm? What-what?”

"There are tons of open seats.”

“Yeah, for real. I think this place will fill up pretty soon,

though,” she said.

“But it’s empty now, right?”

“You said it. Something wrong with that?"

“I wanna eat alone, so let’s move along now, honey,” I

wanted to say. But then I saw her smile—a vulnerable smile

that showed she couldn’t possibly have imagined she was

about to be completely rejected—even I had to take pity.

“Nah . . . it’s nothing.”

“Hm? You’re a weird guy.” She gave me the pouty lips.

“Ah, but I guess if you weren’t weird, you wouldn’t be you.

Weirdness is like your ident.i.ty, right?”

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I couldn’t help but feel like I was being inadvertently

insulted. But then again, it wasn’t as bad as completely

forgetting someone you had been regularly interacting with for

a whole month. So I swept the notion aside and switched my

focus back to the kimchee.

“Ikkun, you’re a kimchee fan?”

“Nah, not particularly.”

“But that’s a ton of kimchee. Not even Koreans eat that

much in one sitting.”

“Well, I have my reasons,” I said as I crammed some

kimchee into my mouth. More than half of it still remained in

my bowl. “Not very interesting ones, but still.”

“Reasons?”

“Try to figure it out yourself first.”

“Huh? Oh, right. . . okay.” Mikoko-chan crossed her arms

and began to contemplate my rationale. Of course, figuring

what circ.u.mstances could possibly require my eating an entire

bowl of kimchee wasn’t exactly easy. After just a few

moments of pondering, she let her arms drop back down

apathetically. She really was quick to throw in the towel.

“Oh, yeah, by the way, I had a question for you. I thought

this was a good opportunity to ask you. May I?”

“Uh, sure.”

Wasn’t the phrase “a good opportunity” usually used for

something that came up by chance? As far as I knew, Mikokochan

had come here and sat down in front of me of her own

volition.

Or maybe that was beside the point.

She was wearing the same smile when she posed her

question. “Ikkun, you know how you didn’t come to school

for a while in the beginning of April? Why was that?”

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“Uh . . .” My chopsticks stopped moving. The bits of kimchee

they held plopped back into the bowl. “Uh, well . . .”

I must have had a troubled look on my face, because

Mikoko-chan was quick to start waving her hands around

frantically and say, “Oh, if it’s hard to talk about it, don’t

worry. I was just wondering, that’s all. It’s like, Unsolved Mysteries

Featuring Mikoko-chan.”

“No, it’s not hard to talk about. It’s a simple story, really.

I was just on a vacation. For about a week.”

“Vacation?” She blinked at me like a little forest animal.

Her expressions were also easy to read. It made it easy for me

to talk to her—she was a great listener.

“Vacation? Where’d you go?" she asked again.

“Out to some deserted island in the Sea of j.a.pan, kind of

by accident.”

“By accident?”

“Yeah. A big accident. Anyway, that’s how I got myself

into this kimchee-eating situation.”

She scratched her head, which was probably a natural response.

But I am a fundamentally lazy person, so I couldn’t

be bothered to explain all the details. Or rather, just how the

h.e.l.l would I?

“Anyway, just a vacation. Nothing particularly deep.”

“Huh. You don’t say.”

“What did you think it was?”

“Oh, nothing . . .” She blushed a bit. “I just thought maybe,

uh, like you hurt yourself somehow and had an extended

stay at the hospital or something.”

How and why such an idea would occur to her was a mystery

to me, but then again, for someone to suddenly take a

week off just after entering a university, there weren’t really

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any other plausible explanations that came to mind. At the

very least, it was a more likely explanation than “I was just on

a vacation.”

“I see. Sort of like a delayed graduation trip.”

“Yeah, something like that. I couldn’t get a reservation, so

it ended up eating into April,” I said with a shrug, but of

course the real facts were totally different. The very idea that I

had “graduated from school” was something I hadn’t

experienced since elementary school. I’d certainly never been

on a “graduation trip.” But all of the circ.u.mstances surrounding

what had happened would have required a pointlessly

long explanation, and it wasn’t exactly the kind of thing

I wanted to talk about at length anyway, so I just went with

her interpretation.

“Hmm . . .” She gave a sort of half-convinced expression.

“So did you go alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Gotcha.” And then, just like that, the cheerful smile was

back. It was as if all confusion had been cleared. It was like she

really didn’t put on any façades. She was so straightforward

with her emotions that I almost envied her.

Well . . .

Not really.

“So, Mikoko-chan . . . Why are you really here?”

“Huh?”

“You have something to say, I a.s.sume? I mean, considering

you came and sat right here when there’s a whole roomful

of empty chairs.”

“Huh.” She narrowed her eyes and lowered her gaze a bit,

down to my chest. “So I can’t sit with you unless I’ve got

something specific to say to you?”

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“Huh?” This time it was my turn to scratch my head.

She continued talking in the meantime. "I mean . . . am I

bothering you? I just saw you when I was walking by, so I

thought maybe we could eat together.”

“Ah, gotcha.”

So she’d just wanted someone to eat with. I was the type

who preferred doing personal things, like eating, alone, but

there were plenty of people who viewed mealtime and talk

time as one and the same. Surely Mikoko-chan was one of

them. But having unexpectedly decided to skip cla.s.s, she

couldn’t find a friend to eat with, so she went ahead and

struck up a conversation with the first acquaintance she

happened to see—me.

“Well, if that’s all it is, it’s fine by me,” I a.s.sured her.

“Thanks. That’s a relief. I don’t know what I would’ve

done if you had said no.”

“You don’t?”

“Hm? Yeah. Maybe something like this,” she said, pretending

to hold the edges of her tray in both hands. Then she

twisted her wrists in a sudden cracking motion. “Like that.”

“I see . . .” Even if she was just joking, I was a little relieved

I had refrained from saying no. I wouldn’t have put

such a reaction past her, in reality. Someone who expressed

happiness so freely might express anger just as freely.

“Well, I guess I’m free anyway. As long as you just want to

talk,” I said.

"Thanks.”

“So what are we talking about?”

“Oh, umm . . .”

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As I prompted her onward, she began anxiously sc.r.a.ping

her chopsticks together. She was probably trying to think of a

topic.

I may have forgotten who she was, but surely in the past

month it seemed like she’d at least managed to grasp the surface

of my personality. So just what kind of topic would she

broach with me? Me, who was so ignorant, and so lacking in

common sense, that I used to think soccer was baseball played

with your feet? I was strangely interested to find out, as if I

were watching it happen to someone else.

She clapped her hands as if she had suddenly thought of

something. “Don’t you think the world’s gone crazy?” she said.

“Huh? In what way?”

“I mean . . . er, you know, the prowler. Even you must

know about it.”

Even me.

Even me—the phrase was pretty enraging. Except that it

happened that I had no idea who the h.e.l.l “the prowler” was.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot! Of course I know!” An

angry outburst like that would have been fairly justified, but

"Shut up! How the h.e.l.l am I supposed to know what that is,

stupid?!” just didn’t have the same ring of validity to it.

“Hm? What’s wrong, Ikkun?” she asked.

“Ah, nothing. What’s ‘the prowler’?”

Obviously I wasn’t looking for the dictionary definition,

one who prowls. She gawked at me in amazement.

"You’re kidding, right? Is this a joke? Ikkun, it’s been all

over the news. There’s no way you could have missed this

if you live in Kyoto.”

“There’s no TV in my house, and I don’t get the paper

either.”

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"What about the Internet?”

“Oh, I don’t have a computer. Don’t really use the ones on

campus much either.”

"Oh my G.o.d, Ikkun is a caveman!” she said, sounding almost

impressed in a way. “Is it some sort of ethical policy?”

“Maybe it is, in a sense. How do I put it . . . I don’t like

having possessions.”

“Cooool! You’re like an ancient philosopher! Wow!” She

clapped her hands with joy. I seriously doubted I would have

gotten the same reaction if she knew it was actually for a

practical—and completely lame—reason: My room was just

too small.

I mean, newspapers take up a lot of s.p.a.ce.

“When you say ‘if you live in Kyoto,’ do you mean this

‘prowler’ thing is going on here?”

“Yeah, that’s right. It’s made a pretty big splash. ‘Panic in

the Old Capital!’ Some places have even called off field trips.”

“Wow . . . too bad for them.”

“Six people have been murdered! And it’s still going on

right now! With no known suspects!” She had become all riled

up, and there was a hint of excitement in her voice. “He stabs

them with a knife and then flings their guts all around and

stuff! Freaky, huh?”

“. . .”

Let’s set aside the fact that we were in the middle of

eating. After all, I was partly responsible for the fact that the

conversation had veered in this direction. But what did it say

of this girl that she was able to discuss the murder of others

with such absolute glee?

It’s scary how detached people can become.

“Six people, huh? Is that a lot?”

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“Yeah it’s a lot! It’s a h.e.l.l of a lot!” She almost sounded

boastful in a way, as if she were the one doing the killing.

“Maybe not overseas, but serial killings are rare in j.a.pan! It’s

become quite a sensation, you know.”

“Huh. So that’s why there are patrol cars circling around all

over the place.”

“Yeah. There are people from the mobile police force in

Shinkyôgoku. Makes me think of the Gion Festival.” She

chuckled to herself for some reason.

“Wow, go figure. I didn’t know anything about this.”

As I nodded along with her explanation, somehow I knew

Kunagisa would definitely get a kick out of this. Kunagisa, for

those new to my story, is the short version of Kunagisa Tomo,

one of my few friends. That is to say, my only friend. Kunagisa

Tomo was a nineteen-year-old electronic and mechanical engineering

professional shut-in of the mysterious variety, with

blue hair and a pa.s.sionate interest in collecting information on

just these types of incidents.

Unlike me, she wasn’t constantly in the dark about what

was going on in the world. In fact, she was essentially an

information-collecting expert, and she was probably already

well aware of this prowler case without my having to say anything

about it. In fact, she was probably already taking action.

“So when did it start?”

“Around the beginning of May, maybe? I think that’s right.

Why?”

“Oh, I was just asking.”

I put the last piece of kimchee in my mouth. My tongue,

or rather the entire inside of my mouth, was completely

mangled. I would probably never take food for granted or say

"this tastes bad” again. If you thought about it, the fact that a

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single bowl of kimchee could so easily destroy all my principles

didn’t say much for my taste buds. Or maybe it was more

of a stomach issue.

“Well, I’m done. See you again sometime.” I put down my

chopsticks and began to get up from my seat.

"Ah! Hold on! Hold on, will you?! Where are you going?!”

Mikoko scrambled to stop me. “Wait a minute, Ikkun!”

“What do you mean, Where am I going’? I’m finished

eating so I figured maybe I’d drop by the bookstore.”

"I’m not done!” I took a look at her tray. Indeed, more than

half of her food was left.

"But I am.”

"Don’t make me sad. Stay with me till I’m finished.”

“Why should I have to do a pointless thing like that?” . . . is

exactly the kind of thing I’m not tough enough to say. I’m

more of the go-with-the-flow type.

“Okay. I’m free now anyway.” I didn’t have anything

urgent to do, and it wasn’t like I was full yet, either.

I figured I might as well eat some real food while I was

there. “Wait a minute. I’m gonna go buy something.”

I approached the register from the opposite direction

(which was against the rules) and took a look at the menu on

the wall, pondering whether I should order the beef bowl.

Geez, it was more expensive than Yoshinoya. Maybe something

else was the way to go.

“Kimchee again?” the lady at the counter interrupted

lightheartedly as I was trying to decide.

“Yes.”

Oops.

I had up and said it.

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“No use crying over spilt milk.” Or wait, was this more of a

“hindsight-is-always-twenty-twenty situation”?

A few dozen seconds later, I received another heaping

bowl of kimchee (this time the lunch lady gave me a little

extra) and sat back down in front of Mikoko-chan.

"What the h.e.l.l? Am I supposed to be following along with

something here?” she said.

“Don’t worry about it. So what were we talking about?”

“Hm? Uh, what was it? I forgot."

“Gotcha. Well, then you want to talk about cla.s.s?”

She shook her head firmly.

“Why? There were some things I didn’t really get in first

period today, so I was thinking maybe we could go over it

together. It’s a required cla.s.s for freshmen, so you must have

gone, right? If you ask me, the professor’s inability to explain

things properly is to blame, but what do you think?”

“What do I think?’ I think that there isn’t a boy alive who

brings up something like this to a girl when there isn’t even a

test coming up!”

I was only kidding, but she seemed seriously put off by it.

“What’s the matter? You don’t like studying?”

“n.o.body likes studying.”

“That sounds debatable to me. But if you hate studying,

why did you go to college?”

“Ah, that’s a forbidden question. If you ask that, it’s all

over. I mean . . . everyone’s like that, right?”

It seemed I had inadvertently touched a soft spot, and she

suddenly seemed a bit melancholy. Come to think of it, it

seemed to me that someone had once said j.a.panese universities

weren’t a place for people who wanted to study, and

that college was just a time to prepare for entering society.

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“Heh, that’s one way to put it.”

“Do you like studying?” she said.

I shrugged.

Of course not.

In fact, I hated it.

“But it’s not bad for killing time. Or as an escape from

reality, rather.”

“Usually studying is the reality.” She gave a heavy sigh.

Then, as if shifting her focus back to her meal, she picked at

her salad for a while in silence.

Hmm. Was a plate of spaghetti, a large salad, and a dessert

really a normal-size portion for a girl under the age of twenty?

I didn’t know anybody fit to use as a standard for comparison—everyone

I knew was either incredibly finicky, ridiculously

gluttonous, or always fasting or something—so I had no

standards for judgment. But seeing as Mikoko-chan was neither

too slim nor the opposite, perhaps it was, at the very

least, an appropriate portion for her.

“Umm, it’s hard to eat with you staring at me like that,”

she said.

"Oh, sorry.”

"S’okay.”

She resumed eating. When she was nearly done, she began

looking my way in a sort of probing fashion. Really, she had

been peeping up at me every so often the whole time, but

now she had suddenly become obvious about it, making eyes

at me like there was something she wanted to tell me.

And indeed, that proved to be an accurate speculation.

As if she had at last made up her mind about something,

she placed her chopsticks down without finishing her dessert.

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She gave a bit of a playful smile as she leaned her body

forward, bringing her face close to mine.

"So, Ikkun,” she said.

“Yeah . . . ?"

“The truth is, I may or may not have a favor to ask you.”

"You don’t.”

“I do.” She leaned back again in her seat. “Are you the kind

of guy who might be free tomorrow?”

“If you define free as not having any plans, then I sup-pose

I’m more apt to say yes than no.”

“Yeah, kind of hard to follow you.”

“That’s just how I am,” I responded as I chewed my kimchee.

“To put it more simply—I’m a free dude.”

“Really? You’re free? Oh, good!” She pressed her hands

together in front of her chest with a look of true joy. To cause

someone such teary-eyed happiness just by not having plans

on a Sat.u.r.day seemed a bit much.

More important, this didn’t look good. I had the distinct

feeling I was about to get dragged into something.

“I see, I see, so if I’m free, something good happens to you,

huh? One hand washes the other. It’s also kind of like the

food chain. A magnificent circuit, if you will,” I said.

She wasn’t even listening. "Yeah. So anyway, if you’re free

tomorrow, I was hoping we could get together!”

Her hands still pressed together, she tilted them to the side

a bit as if to emphasize her request. It was such an earnest,

imploring pose that it almost felt like foul play. There was

scarcely a male life-form alive that wouldn’t have surrendered

to it. They would want to surrender.

Nevertheless, I refused without mercy.

“No,” I said.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 1

“Wha?! Why?!” she shrieked. “You’re free, right?”

“Well, yeah. But it’s like I said, I don’t dislike boredom.

Sometimes people like to just spend the day doing nothing,

right? Everyone feels like that sometimes. Everyone wants to

escape the hustle and bustle of the world sometimes, to free

themselves of the ha.s.sle of dealing with other people.

Everybody has a right to time to contemplate their own lives.

I just happen to have more.”

“But-but-but! How can you just refuse without even

hearing me out?! That’s crazy! It’s like a bunch of eighth

graders forming a band, but they all end up playing ba.s.s!”

It was a pretty great a.n.a.logy.

On close inspection, it was apparent that she was about to

cry. That is to say tears were already br.i.m.m.i.n.g in the corners

of her eyes. This was not a desirable situation.

I looked around. It was about time for the dining hall to

start filling up, and students began trickling in, their numbers

gradually increasing. At this point, I wanted to avoid standing

out (by, say, making a relatively hot girl cry) as much as possible.

But come on, who cries just from one little rejection?

“Okay, okay, just calm down. I’ll hear you out. Come on,

have some kimchee.”

“Okay,” she said, sniffling.

Doing as suggested, Mikoko-chan placed some kimchee in

her mouth. “Uwa!” she peeped, and then the tears really

started flowing. It seemed she wasn’t much for surprises

(which I kind of knew).

“Ahh, hot . . .” she cried out.

“Well, it is kimchee. It wouldn’t be kimchee if it wasn’t

spicy.”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 2

They say there’s also sugar-preserved kimchee, but I always

went with spicy, so I had never seen it. I wouldn’t mind if I

never did, either.

“Ohh, you’re terrible. You’re so mean. . . . Now, what

were we talking about?”

“That prowling killer?”

“No! We were talking about tomorrow!”

Bam! She slammed her hand on the table. It looked like she

was seriously a little mad now. Maybe I had gone too far, I

reflected.

“Umm, do you know Emoto-san?”

“Whether I know her or not, I don’t remember her.”

“She’s in our core subject cla.s.ses. Her hair is like this.” She

stuck her fists to the sides of her ears, but even with this

striking pose, “Emoto-san” and her hairstyle remained firmly

beyond the grasp of my imagination.

“She’s a pretty noticeable girl. She’s always wearing shiny

things.”

“Huh. Well, I don’t really look at people much. What’s her

full name?”

“Emoto Tomoe. That’s the tomo from wisdom and the e

from blessing."

Interesting name. Sounded like it could do a headstand and

start running around upside down. It felt like it rang a bell, but

I couldn’t put my finger on it. I didn’t want to just toss out

some answer like, “Oh yeah, yeah, I know that chick. She’s

the one with the contact lenses, right?” There was always the

chance that Mikoko-chan would throw it right back in my

face, like, “I tricked you! There’s n.o.body like that in our cla.s.s!

Ahahaha, looks like the pants are on the other leg now! Nyanya-nya!”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 3

And then the egg would be on my face, my fraudulence

exposed. Not that Mikoko-chan would do something like that.

“Her nickname is Tomo-chan.”

“That’s not gonna work for me.”

“Huh? Why not?”

“No reason. Just my own personal thing.” I shook my head.

“Sorry. I don’t remember at all.”

“Figures,” she said, laughing. “But if you didn’t remember

me, I guess it goes without saying that you wouldn’t remember

her. If you did remember her, I’d be a little shocked.”

I didn’t quite follow her reasoning, but as long as my lack

of memory made her avoid feeling terrible, I guessed it wasn’t

totally worthless. Something definitely seemed off with the

logic there, though.

“Well, okay. How about Atemiya-san? Atemiya Muimisan?

I call her Muimi-chan.”

“Another cla.s.smate?”

She nodded. "Then there’s Usami Akiharu-kun. Akiharukun

is a guy, so you must remember him, right?”

“My memory functions in a gender-neutral environment.”

“But you sure don’t seem like a feminist.”

She let out a big, unintentionally exaggerated sigh. It was

like I had done something wrong. But it was my memory’s

fault, right?

“Anyway, so Tomo-chan, Muimi-chan, and Akiharu-kun.

We’re all going out tomorrow night for a little drinking.”

“Huh. What’s the occasion?”

“It’s Tomo-chan’s birthday!” For some reason she seemed a

tad boastful. It was hard to deny her adorableness as she sat

there with her hands on her hips, chest stuck out. “May fourteenth!

Happy twentieth!”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 4

If this Tomo-chan was a cla.s.smate, that meant she was a

freshman. Maybe she had entered college a year late. Or

maybe she was a returnee like me. It didn’t really matter.

“I’m only nineteen, by the way. My birthday’s April twentieth.”

“Huh,” I said.

I didn’t really care.

She continued. “Umm, so anyway, tomorrow’s Tomochan’s

birthday, so we figured we’d throw a really light, casual

kind of party.”

“Huh. Seems like an awfully intimate group for a party.”

“Yeah, well. We all like the rowdy atmosphere thing, but

n.o.body wanted there to be a ton of people, so what are you

gonna do?”

“Ah. Then four people is pretty appropriate, huh.”

“Huh?” She looked surprised.

“A fifth person would throw off the balance.”

“Huh? What?”

“Well, say hi to everyone for me. And happy birthday to

you.”

“It’s not my birthday! Hey, wait, I mean don’t just get up

and leave! You don’t know the other half of the story yet!”

“Well, they say knowing is only half the battle,” I said.

“That’s not what that means!”

She grabbed me by the sleeve as I started to leave and

forced me to sit back down. But even if the conversation was

only half-over, I could more or less tell what was coming next.

“Okay then. So now you’re going to tell me to partake in

this drinking party . . . or birthday party, rather. Right?”

“Gah! Wow, that’s exactly right.” She flung up her hands

in surprise, but this time it reeked of phoniness. Maybe it

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 5

wasn’t that she didn’t put on any façades; she was just a lousy

actress. “Amazing, it’s like you’ve got ESP or something,

Ikkun.”

“Let’s not go there. Not a good subject.” I let out a light

sigh. “How did all this come about? I don’t even know these

people, right?”

“Yeah you do. They’re your cla.s.smates.”

Ah, right.

Maybe I had amnesia. I was never good at remembering

people, but lately it had gotten particularly bad. These three

cla.s.smates aside, there wasn’t a single person in all of Rok.u.meikan

University whom I had a clear picture of.

But there was a more likely explanation: that it was simply

the result of my apathy toward other human beings. It had

nothing to do with my mind’s functionality. It wasn’t a defect.

It wasn’t that some essential part was missing, either.

It was just that I was, from the very start, a broken thing.

“Could it be that I’ve just forgotten, and that I’m actually

good friends with these three people? Even I wouldn’t forget

something like who my friends are, I think.”

Mikoko-chan’s expression grew a little sad. “I don’t think

that’s the case,” she said. "You probably haven’t spoken much.

I mean, you’ve always got this narrow-eyed scowl as if you’re

thinking really hard about something or filled with contempt.

Even now. It makes you kind of hard to approach. It’s like

you’ve got a wall in front of you. Or your AT field is fully

operational. And in spite of all that, you always sit directly in

the middle of the cla.s.sroom.”

I wanted her to leave me the h.e.l.l alone. I wanted to tell

her not to bother talking to me if that was how she felt. But I

didn’t.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 6

I finished my kimchee. As it turned out, two bowls ended

up being pretty excessive, and I felt dreadful fullness in my

stomach. I probably wouldn’t be having kimchee again for a

long time.

“But you and I are friends, right?” she asked.

“Are we?”

"Yes!” She slammed both hands on the table again. It

seemed she had a habit of hitting nearby things when she got

emotional. I’d have to remember to stay out of range of those

slender arms if I was going to make fun of her. That is to say,

I’d have to stay out of range when I made fun of her. Maybe it

was better to pick on her over the phone.

Er, I mean, why was I planning ways to hara.s.s her?

“And, so, naturally, I tell my friends about you sometimes,

right?”

“I guess.”

"And then my friends think, ‘Man, for a guy who’s always

got such a crummy face, he seems kind of cool,’ right?”

“I guess it’s possible.”

“So it’s not so strange that they would want to try being

friends with someone who seems kind of cool, even if he is a

weirdo. Right?”

“Yeah, I guess we all have temptations.”

“So that’s what I’m saying,” she said.

“What is?”

“That.”

She peered up at me with eager, expectant eyes. I pretended

I was drinking tea in order to escape her gaze. But a single

cup of tea sure wasn’t going to be enough to revive my

paralyzed mouth.

"Huh. I understand,” I said.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 7

“You do?”

“It’s a good opportunity and all, so I think I’ll go spend the

night at my parents’ place tomorrow.”

“Don’t make plans’ You didn’t even go home during

Golden Week!”

She slammed the table again. I was a little disturbed that

she knew what I had been doing during Golden Week, but

then again, maybe I had told her and forgotten.

“But you know . . . it’s almost Mother’s Day and stuff.”

“That was last week! And besides, you’re not the kind of

guy who would go out of his way to show devotion to his

parents!”

That was rather harsh. And even if she was right, did she

believe that a seventeen-year-old guy who wouldn’t even go

out of his way for his parents would be any nicer to someone

who was just a cla.s.smate? Maybe she was so worked up she

didn’t realize what she was saying anymore.

“Come on, I’m begging you. I already told them I’d bring

you. I’ll lose face.”

“It seems like there’s a misunderstanding here, so let me

clear things up—I’m not the kind of guy you can have fun

talking to. They say I’ve got about as much pep as a storm

cloud.”

“Wow, that’s as disappointing as hearing about two budding

young authors, only one’s poison ivy and the other got

eaten by tent caterpillars." She looked a little somber as she

chewed her lip. “Come on, Ikkun. Do it as a favor to me. I

know it’s selfish of me, but hey, I’ll even pay for drinks.”

“Sorry, I’m not a drinker.”

This was true.

“Why not?”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 8

“I once drank a whole bottle of vodka in one go.” I didn’t

dare tell her how things ended up after that, but at any rate,

ever since then I had sworn off alcohol. I may not be such a

smart guy, but I’m not so dumb that I don’t learn from my

experiences either.

“Wow, not even the Russians do that.” She was truly surprised.

“I see. . . . So you can’t drink. Hm, now what?”

She immersed herself in thought once again. It seemed she

had a firm understanding of what it was like for a non-drinker

to show up at a drinking party. Perhaps she was a lightweight

herself at least to some extent.

Nevertheless . . .

I wasn’t so cold-blooded that I felt nothing for this girl sitting

before me, looking so deeply troubled.

Dammit . . . I get dragged into things so easily. Going along

with something out of pity was one thing. But getting dragged

in just because the situation presented itself was totally lame.

“Okay, okay. As long as you’re okay with me just sitting in

the middle of the room scowling.”

“Hmm, I guess that would be an awful bother for you, but

you know, I think . . . Wait, you mean you’ll go?” she said.

She shot her body forward. Maybe it’s a rude a.n.a.logy, but

she was like a dog who had just had food tossed in front of it.

A cat would have approached it with some caution, suspecting

the possibility of a trap, but Mikoko-chan was completely unguarded.

She may have physically resembled a cat, but she

was definitely more like a dog in personality.

“Is it really okay? Will you really come?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’m free anyway.”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 2 9

Even I was a little appalled by my own bluntness and

wondered if I couldn’t have put it a little more nicely. All the

same, she shrieked with joy.

“Waaah! Thank you!” She smiled innocently.

I replied by downing the rest of my tea. At some point she

had finished her dessert as well, so it was time I really should

start to leave.

“Ah, wait a sec. Let me know your phone number. I’ll call

you.”

“Hm? Ah . . .” I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket.

“Okay, it’s . . . uh, I forgot.”

“Figures. Okay, then I’ll give you mine, so dial me.”

I entered her number as told and sent it. A ringtone

emerged from her little bag. David Bowie. She had surprisingly

great taste.

“Okay, got it. Hey, Ikkun, your phone doesn’t have a

strap.”

“Ah, yeah. I don’t like that girly stuff.”

“Are straps girly?”

“Well, I’m no expert or anything, but they’re definitely not

very manly.”

“Mmm, guess not,” she said with consternation.

“Well then,” I said, stepping away from my seat with my

tray. “See you tomorrow, Mikoko-chan.”

“Yep! Don’t you forget about me again!”

She gave me a big wave, to which I responded with a small

one as I made my way out of the dining hall. After returning

my tray and silverware, I headed straight to the co-op bookstore.

Of course, being a university bookstore, its main selection

consisted of academic texts, and its recreational reading

selection was fairly limited. But on the plus side there was a

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 0

10 percent discount on everything, and for some reason (I

wonder why) this particular bookstore had an unusually large

selection of magazines, so it got fairly crowded.

I made my way to the novels section and picked one out.

Wait. Huh? Something had occurred to me.

"Wait a minute. Did Mikoko-chan call me ‘Ikkun’?”

Now that I looked back on our encounter, that nickname

she used seemed to stand out. I hadn’t even noticed when

she’d used the nickname—but I didn’t think anyone had ever

addressed me with such an overly familiar nickname in the

past. I thought about it for a moment, but I couldn’t remember.

I had no specific memory of her calling me that before,

but then again, I didn’t remember her not calling me that,

either. After all, I hardly have any memory of Mikoko-chan

herself, much less a trivial thing like what name she called me.

“Eh, whatever.”

Either way was fine by me. Satisfied with that notion, I

began reading the novel inside the store.

Yup.

No big deal.

Hardly a life or death situation.

All was well with the world.

Even if Heaven was empty.

What is a fatal wound?

Cutting off someone’s head.

Yeah, obviously that’s one.

Crushing someone’s heart.

Again, obvious.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 1

Destroying someone’s brain.

Naturally.

Stopping their breathing.

That’s another good method. Pretty final, too.

But when I say "fatal wound,” I’m not referring to these

trivial sorts of things.

I’m thinking of something else. A fatal wound is an impact

so intense, so devastating, that you fall into a state where

you’re no longer a human—even though you are. You’re no

longer able to lead a life even though you’re living. It means

being ground to bits after falling victim to a relative paradox

created by reason itself.

That is a fatal wound.

In other words, failure.

The key here is the fact that even after a profound failure,

we go on.

The world is brutally tepid.

It’s so kind that it’s cruel. It’s a devil’s Heaven.

To put it plainly, you don’t die by making a big mistake.

Or maybe I should say you can’t die.

Yeah, you don’t die.

You just suffer.

You simply suffer in agony.

And you go on. Forever, wherever.

Meaninglessly, you just go on.

Life isn’t a video game, not because there’s no reset b.u.t.ton,

but because there’s no Game Over. Even though it was

"over” long ago, tomorrow shows up anyway. Even when night

falls, morning comes again after it. When winter ends, spring

rolls in. Life is wonderful.

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 2

It’s an absolute paradox—even though you’ve taken a fatal

blow, you can’t die. It’s like asking what a person sees when

he looks backward while traveling faster than the speed of

light. An unthinkable question.

Even though the potential to be you has long since been

cut off, you go on. You do it all over, again and again. You

redo your life again and again.

But it’s like making a million c.r.a.ppy copies, and each time

you make one, your 'self” gets a little bit shoddier.

And eventually you get to thinking . . .

Am I really me, or . . .

. . . did I become something else

long ago?

Have I devolved?

Just as the central figure in an incident can’t all of a sudden

become just a disinterested bystander, you can’t become your

own spectator.

And that, my friends, is what’s truly fatal.

“In other words, it’s like mind over matter . . .” I muttered.

As I pondered these fruitless ponderings, I was trying the new

McDonald’s burger. The five hundred twenty-five yen value

combo.

The kimchee must have worked, because my sense of taste

had returned to normal. A McDonald’s hamburger tasted

pretty luscious again. After all, as a j.a.panese person, there was

no way I could have gone on with my life if unable to enjoy

McDonald’s.

The time was 7:30 in the evening.

The place: Shijôkawara-machi, Shinkyôgoku Street.

After fifth period had ended, I decided I wanted to see

those mobile police Mikoko-chan was talking about for

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 3

myself, and my feet had taken me this far in an effort to kill

time.

Next to the tray with the hamburger on it was a single

magazine. What they call a “weekly infozine.” I had bought it

at the co-op, and on the cover it said, “Feature Story: Jack the

Ripper Resurrected in the Devil’s City!”

“Pretty tasteless.”

The ridiculously apocalyptic feel of the magazine was

actually the second reason I had bought it. The first was that it

featured a big story on the “prowler” incidents Mikoko-chan

had been telling me about.

I shoved two fries in my mouth, added a straw as well, and

sucked down some cola. I started flipping through the weekly.

The first page was set with an all too vivid picture of a corpse

as the background, and in big, Gothic letters, it read: “The

Homicidal Monster Who Shook Kyoto!”

Ominous indeed.

“So they let you show photos like this . . .” I muttered as I

flipped through the pages. I had already scanned through the

details of the articles, so I at least knew something about the

incidents now, if not everything.

The media had dubbed the crime spree the “Kyoto Prowler

Serial Killings.” Not the most imaginative name in the world,

but then again, maybe a case like this didn’t need one. Still,

the word prowler hardly seemed to be an accurate description

of the criminal. I always thought of as a prowler as a sort of

stalker, someone who stalks people on the street and causes

them harm. But in this case the culprit was luring the victims

into desolate areas, killing them with a sharp blade, and finally

dismembering the corpses. It seemed like maybe 'serial killer”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 4

was a better description than prowler. And you could definitely

make an a.n.a.logy with the Jack the Ripper murders.

“Six people now, huh? Not bad,” I muttered as I stuffed

the magazine back into my bag.

Yeah, six people. Just as Mikoko-chan had said, six people

in less than two weeks’ time was quite a death toll. It was

probably unprecedented. By the third murder, the police force

had been dispatched all over the region for surveillance. Even

the riot police had been dispatched, and yet the murders went

on, as if the killer were laughing at them.

The victims had no apparent connections. They were

young and old, male and female: The killer showed no mercy

to anyone. The police (and everyone else, for that matter) had

deemed these incidents merely a series of acts of random

violence.

Therefore the sixth victim probably wouldn’t be the last.

The killings would go on. As long as this monster remained on

the loose—or until he decided to stop of his own volition—

there would be more murders. Perhaps even tonight. Perhaps

even right now.

“It’s all nonsense in the end, huh?” I stared out at Shinkyô-

goku Street from the entrance of McDonald’s.

It was the same scenery as always. Fewer tourists and students

on field trips, but it was still pretty crowded—a lot of

kids with dyed hair were milling around. I suppose you could

say that this was when they came out to mark their territory.

n.o.body, absolutely n.o.body walking along this street right

now was seriously considering the notion that they could be

the next victim.

Of course, everyone was still being a little cautious. Some

were visibly unsettled by the mobile police units scattered

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 5

here and there. “What a mess,” they might think, but that

about covers it. At most, they would go home a little earlier

than usual.

But deep in their hearts, everyone believed they would be

going home.

That’s how it is with these things. There are very few

people who can accept as a hard reality the possibility that

they might be the next to die.

It was true that the probability of becoming the next

victim was negligibly low: “Those victims must’ve had been

really unlucky.” A terrible thought, but what else could

people think?

Anyway . . . perhaps I should go ahead and mingle in with

this unguarded crowd? With that in mind, I got up from my

seat only to feel my phone vibrating in my right pocket. I

wasn’t familiar with the number on the display. But I didn’t

want to just ignore it. I went ahead and pushed send.

“Ciao! Mikoko-chan here!”

Hyper from the get-go. It was easy to imagine her giving

me the thumbs-up on the other end, even though I guess she

probably wasn’t actually doing that. But without even knowing

who she was talking to, she was so bubbly and friendly.

What would she have done if this was the wrong number? A

small fire ignited in my inquiring mind.

“Eh? Hey, it’s Mikoko-chan. What’s wrong?”

I didn’t reply.

"Uhh . . . This is Ikkun, right?”

Again, I was silent.

“h.e.l.looo? This is Ikkun, right?”

I persisted in not replying.

“Did I mess up? Huh? I messed up!”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 6

I kept up the silent treatment.

“Gahhh! It’s like getting all prepped for the next radio

calisthenics session—you know, that exercise show broadcast

over the radio—only to have them go ‘We’re outta time, so

just do the chicken dance’! I’m sorry, I dialed the wrong

number!”

At that, I finally said something: “No, this is right. What’s

up?”

“Uwa!” she shrieked in surprise when I spoke. “Huh?

Wha?” she sputtered, confused. Eventually, she let out a sigh,

so I figured she had calmed down a bit. I also figured that it

was only a matter of seconds before her relief turned to anger.

"For crying out loud! It’s the phone! You have to say something!

I’ll freak out if you don’t! Ikkun, you jerk! You snake!

You . . . you monster!”

I didn’t think I’d done anything that bad.

"Sorry, sorry, I was just kidding around.”

I hadn’t meant to stay quiet for so long, but I also had

never expected she’d provide such a hilarious response either.

Before I knew it, my timing had been thrown off.

“G.o.d . . . It’s fine, I guess. Since it’s you and all.”

She let out a moan. It was hard not to feel a little sorry for

her. “Umm,” she started again, back to her normal self. “This

is a business call! Regarding tomorrow’s business!”

“You know, you don’t have to yell. It’s quiet here.”

“Hm? Where are you now?" she asked.

“Ah, uh, I’m at home. At the boarding lodge.”

“Oh. I’m still at school. I had to talk to Inokawa-sensei

about something, so I just got out of the research room. Isn’t

that place incredible?! Books everywhere!”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 7

Inokawa-sensei led the general-education cla.s.s. A slightly

eccentric a.s.sistant professor, he was popular enough with his

students if you were willing to set aside the fact that he was

way too strict about punctuality. (If you weren’t in your seat

by the time the bell started ringing—even if you were in the

cla.s.sroom and were in the act of sitting down while it was

ringing—he marked you absent).

“Umm, right, so about tomorrow. Will you be home tomorrow?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Are we meeting somewhere?” I asked.

“Uh-uh. If we set a meeting place, we might miss each other,

right? That’s no good, so I’ll come meet you at your boarding

lodge. I bought a scooter and I kinda wanna take it for a spin.

So, let’s say four o’clock. Can I go to your place at four?”

“Yeah, it’s fine, but . . . you know where the boarding

lodge is?”

“Huh? Oh, no problem there.” She seemed fl.u.s.tered. “I

mean, because we made that address list when cla.s.ses first

started, so I know it.”

“Is just the address enough?”

"I know Kyoto well, so we’re a-okay. You’re at Senbon

Nakadachiuri, right?”

“Huh?” I asked. There was something suspicious about the

way she was acting, but if she said she knew it, I figured there

was no problem.

“Fine by me,” I replied.

“Okay. That settles that, then. Hmm, I’d like to talk more

since I went to the trouble of calling, but I’ve got to go to

driving school from here. I made an appointment, and if I

don’t go now I’ll be late.”

“Huh. You’re going to driving school.”

ZAREGOTO: THE KUBISHIME ROMANTICIST ■■■ 3 8

“Yep. How about you? Got a license?”

“I do. Just for automatic, though.”

If it wasn’t such a big ha.s.sle to get a license, I could

actually drive anything, but that was a secret.

“I see,” she said. “I’m going for a manual.