The Smell Of Old Books

Is this what you call "existing?"

I've spent the past few minutes looking at myself in the dark mirror of my computer monitor. My brown hair is perfect, bangs set just right. My clothing is impeccable, not a wrinkle in my efficient grey blazer or my pressed white shirt. My makeup is clean, lip-gloss still sparkling, even at the end of the day (touched up in the bathroom as it was).

My eyes are the problem. Watching myself through the particulate dust that coats the screen, I lift my fingers and touch tenderly at my face, pulling down the skin and examining the bags beneath my eyes. I sigh, hoping they look worse in the reflection than they do to the world at large.

It's the beginning of the week. I can't be this tired already.

A gruff voice kicks me out of my reverie. "Kondo-chan," it calls from across the floor. "Kondo-chan."

I jerk upright and jiggle my computer's mouse. In an instant, my face is alight with the white wash of a spreadsheet's glow. Shuttling my keyboard back in front of me, I tap aimlessly at a few keys as my supervisor, Mr. Yoshida, tromps over with an almost alarming haste, given his burly frame, which has become soft with (late) middle age.

His big face is red with effort, but he doesn't waste a moment on composing himself. "Kondo-chan, you take the Seibu line, isn't that right?"

"Eh?" I look up from my computer, as if wrenching myself away from some utterly fascinating work. Out comes a delayed nod. "Yes, that's right."

"Do you know Labrys Books?"

"Labrys Books?" I hedge my words carefully and keep my face guileless, playing ignorant of his intent. "I'm not sure..."

"It's a second-hand shop. It's right on the way, just before the station. My order finally came in, it's for my wife—well, for our wedding anniversary, I mean."

"Oh, congratulations." I force out the expected, complimentary reply (and a tandem smile). Watching his still-unspoken request materialize in the air like a guillotine, poised to strike off the head of my callow resistance in one fell blow, I meekly brook a small compromise. "If you'd like, I'd be happy to pick it up for you on my way in tomorrow."

"Unfortunately, the shop is closed on Wednesdays." Mr. Yoshida shares my impatience for the courtesy game; although his disdain is completely unmasked, wriggling as it is through the fuzzy caterpillars of his thick eyebrows. "And my anniversary dinner is tomorrow night."

"Ah..." I hesitate. I could try for an indirect dismissal, something like

it's a bit inconvenient for me today

, or mentioning how the forecast called for rain this evening...

"I've already told them you're coming. It should only take a minute, thank you Kondo-chan."

The cordiality shellacked over his edict is chipped at the corners.

Proclamation delivered, Mr. Yoshida trundles off as quickly as he came under the auspices of flagging down a passing executive from another department. His tone lofts to congenial, now that he's divested himself of my onerous company. "Ah, Hayada-san, just the man I wanted to see!"

I slump down in my chair and reach out to wiggle my mouse. As the computer wakes once more, I flop my head back against my chair. Counting the many cracks and crevices of the pock-marked ceiling tiles, I hear the quiet tapping of small raindrops begin against the nearby windows...

Sometimes, I think the city is an enormous, sleeping beast, whose roads are jaws, whose buildings are molars. Sometimes, I think the beast that is this city is fitful in its slumber, that the flickering streetlamps and stoplights are the stirring of its sensory system, and that the gusty winds down long avenues are the tremble of its colossal breathing as it begins to rouse.

By the time I join the rush hour exodus, the light rain has blossomed into a blustering summer storm. Giant raindrops assail me in a riot of wet slaps. I take solace in the fact that being just one (fairly small) ant in the tremendous end-of-day crowd shields me from the rain almost as well as my umbrella.

I have a good umbrella. Often, with storms, people curse their lack of foresight, and buy whatever cheap umbrella they can from a convenience store or open-air stand. But those sorts of umbrellas break after just a few uses. In downpours like this, they might not even last you the whole way home! This is the "in the moment" culture we perpetuate—without even thinking about it, people instinctually decide it's easier to waste five hundred yen at a time on shoddily made umbrellas than it is to spend one afternoon researching brands to find one that will last them several years.

Well, I think preparedness is important—maybe even paramount. Thus, I have a very sturdy umbrella. Slate grey, patterned with black polka dots, it is one of the most reliable models you can buy.

My name is Mariko Kondo. I am thirty-four years old. Living in Tokyo, I'm what you call an Office Lady, or "OL." Technically, I am an accountant—having gone to university for it—but I quickly learned, as a large subset of women do in this city, that whatever your degree, whatever your skillset, odds are you'll always be an Office Lady first. This is what they call "societal expectations"; I'm to do my stated job and, in addition, whatever secretarial or clerical miscellany comes up—so-called "pink-collar work." I'm expected to prepare tea for meetings and pour sake for the male employees during after-hours bar crawls—the former I couldn't escape, but, as the years went on, I circumvented the latter by shunting all extracurricular work activities from my schedule.

I was never much for drinking or social engagements anyway.

As all good women should be, I am married. My husband's name is Naoki, he works in finance, and I believe him to be a good man.

As all good women should, I have a child. His name is Haruki, he is seven years old, and he is my star.

As all good women shouldn't, I remained in the work force after Haruki's birth.

I hedge my way forward through the bustling crowd, focusing on my phone's map. I struggle to console myself almost as much as I do against the rain. Labrys Books isn't far from the station. It's a small detour, won't even take five minutes, and I'll be back long before Ms. Sachigawa brings Haruki home for the day.

It's hardly an inconvenience at all. I should count my blessings.

Sometimes I feel guilty about that—returning to the work while Haruki was still so young—but I'm torn whether it's my personal feeling or a phantom one inspired by society's disapproval. I'm not sure why that would matter; a feeling is a feeling. I do know what most frustrates me is the patina of reproach that often glazes a co-worker's expression, even at the mention of Haruki's name, the passive reminder I have done something... not exactly wrong, but certainly unseemly. When I see that instinctual grimace on their face, like a tortured goblin mask that flutters there for just a second before their manners will it away, I hear a whole lecture spring up into the air, perfectly polite:

"It's all well and good to want a career, Kondo-san, but it's not as if you're in a position with upward mobility. You're missing your son's golden years so you can collate spreadsheets?"

I've generally considered my imagination far too wild.

But, consequently, I began avoiding mentions of Haruki to my colleagues. Well, though, I'm not sure it would matter either way. Thirty four is far past the retirement age for a married Office Lady, child or no. It's simply a choice I've made.

Other than that I am not what you would call, in a word, "remarkable."

The only time I have ever strived for anything was when I took the college entrance exams. I grew up in a small town, and when my mother passed away, I moved to an even smaller one, basically a hamlet, to stay with my grandparents. At the time, I believed country life to be a shackle, and university to be the mattock. So I dove into my studies at the exclusion of nearly all else, and my persistence was rewarded when I was accepted to Waseda University in Shinjuku, Tokyo. Receiving my acceptance, I was swept up in a tide of bliss; I'd done it. The promise of freedom was intoxicating.

But soon I discovered how quickly moves the pace of a city. I learned that my hours poring over books had done nothing for my social skills. The few friends I had in high school reduced to a small clutch of acquaintances in university. I told myself I didn't mind. By that time, burying myself in work was more than easy; it was natural.

As a result, even in a metropolis of nearly forty million people, I know very few.

Sometimes, I think the rumbling of the subway beneath my feet is a warning, that soon the patient city will spring its trap, snap shut its massive jaws, and swallow me whole.

I stand off to the side, partially sheltered beneath a gaudy yellow convenience store awning on the avenue where Labrys Books should be, and recheck my phone. I squint through the dreary morass of rain and people, hoping to catch sight of an obvious banner or sign. The little blue GPS dot paints it right here. Well, where is it then! Umbrella or not, I'm getting soaked!

A tendril of the rush hour crowd bulges from the main group. Shoulders and satchels jostle me in their hurry to reach the station and get out of the rain, and I stumble forward a step or two. I shoot a furrow of my brow at the foot traffic. No need to shove; I'd like to too, you know!

But the offenders are already long gone. New, innocent faces replace the old, guilty ones in the surging sea of people, and the crowd marches on with brusque indifference.

A gust of wind spatters rain against my back and threatens to strip my umbrella out of my hands. Scrambling not to lose it, I turn away from the gale and duck onto a pedestrian side street clustered with small boutique shops. Like a beacon, three doors down, is the muted green awning of Labrys Books. With precipitous relief, I hasten inside.

The shop bell rings as I open the door; a whisper of warm air hurries over my face, as if escaping an unsealed tomb. I shake my umbrella free of rain and let the door close behind me, blinking my eyes as they adjust to the low light inside.

The air is tinged with the scent of cigarette smoke, but beneath that is the stale, delicate aroma of old books, something I always enjoyed, back in a time where there was time for such things as "hobbies." As I close my umbrella and deposit it in the waiting bin next to me, I allow myself the indulgence of a long inhalation. It smells wonderful. It reminds me of another time. Not a better one, or a simpler one—my life is very simple, I think, though this hardly disappoints me—just a different one.

The microscopic, impossibly crowded store is packed with tall wooden shelves, piled over with stock, that seem to stretch off into a forever distance, lined up like gills on a fish. I leave wet footprints on the worn hardwood as I step around the haphazard piles of books placed near the entrance toward the only clear floor space, in front of the wide, old-style wooden counter, just a few feet from the door.

Behind it, a youthful-looking clerk is reading a dog-eared paperback with one hand, splayed open between finger and thumb, while he smokes a premium cigarette with the other. He has short, black hair razored in a stylish cut, and is wearing a blue button-down shirt, open at the collar. Thick-rimmed black glasses sit on the bridge of his aquiline nose. He has a soft face, for a man. When he looks up at me, I startle, only then realizing I've been staring.

"Welcome," she—

she!

—says, delivering the expected, requisite shop greeting, with an unexpected, almost phlegmatic, lack of care.

Her voice is low, but only for a woman. She gazes at me coolly. It only lasts a nanosecond, but a baseball-sized lump catches in my throat. On reflex I offer a hasty half-bow, as if she were somehow aware of my misapprehension.

Thankfully, she spares me further embarrassment by returning to her book. My impromptu, unnecessary apology goes completely unnoticed.

I shuffle forward when she offers me no further attention.

"Ah," I say. "Excuse me, I'm here to pick up an order."

She reaches beside her, to rest her cigarette in the chipped and overfull plastic ashtray on the counter. Then she takes a business card from a pile of them next to the computer, places it to mark her page, and leaves the book on the counter. Its title, in English, reads

Oranges are not the Only Fruit

.

"Name?" she asks.

She has a small beauty mark just above her lip. As a man, I would've thought her around twenty. As I woman, I suspect she is closer to my age. She has a succinct way of moving; efficient, but unhurried.

"It's Kondo, Mariko Kondo," I reply. "But I'm picking up for my boss, Hiroshi Yoshida. He called ahead."

She turns to her computer monitor. The mouse wheel responds with a creaking complaint as she flicks her finger over it. Then she bends down, nearly placing her ear against the counter as she rustles around beneath it.

I find myself glancing at the book on the counter while I wait. On its cover is a highly stylized drawing of a nude woman with tousled black hair. A long green snake winds around her breasts. The woman seems unconcerned. Quite the opposite, her hands embrace the snake in a loose, reciprocating hold. Arched behind her back, it seems poised to whisper some dark secret into her ear. There is the slightest curve to her lips. She has a Mona Lisa smile. Her eyes stare forward at me; they are somewhat dispassionate.

The clerk deposits a heavy, paper-wrapped book onto the counter with a thump. "Have you read it?"

"Ah?" The sound startles me from my trance. I blink back up at her, shaking my head. "No, I haven't..."

"You should." A perfunctory nod as she turns to her computer. Her short fingernails tap leisurely across the keyboard, and I think she's done speaking until she says, "Though I'm not sure if there's a Japanese translation."

"Actually, I read English quite well."

I flinch inwardly. Ordinarily I'd never say such an impertinent thing.

But it was true! In fact, I'd started my university career studying English Romantic poets, of whom my favorites were Shelley and Keats—distressingly common choices, I know—though my favorite poem, in English, is actually The Wasteland, by T.S. Eliot.

There is shadow under this red rock,

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

In the dark of my room, late at night, it was as if there were an ethereal presence around me. I remember softly weeping, but not knowing why.

Of course, the clerk asks none of this, nor does she comment on my rude retort. Instead, she flashes me a canny smile, asking, "Is that so?"

Her direct tone and her low, deliberate voice, have a way of making the question sound like a statement. She places the paper-wrapped book into a plastic bag and ties it off with a sharp knot. I do not respond further, unsure if this is an exchange I'm expected to continue.

That sort of conversational nuance has always eluded me. Back in university, as it turned out, I was unsuited for a Fine Arts degree. I enjoyed the material, but found the obligatory class participation rather difficult. So, at the end of my second term I switched my focus to Accounting, a more sensible choice, ultimately.

When I told my grandparents about my change of major, my grandmother was relieved. But I caught a fleeting look of disappointment on my grandfather's face, his expression creasing around his cloudy hazel eyes like the subtlest frown. In some part it was sadness, but tinged with gentle aura of regret—though he never made mention of his thoughts on the matter...

"Already paid for." The clerk presses the return key and the computer responds in an electronic chirps. "Need to take your information down, in case there's any problems." She nudges a pad of receipt paper in front of her and begins to write. "The kanji in your first name, written like that idol singer? The one that died?"

I blanch at her forwardness. "Written as 'white jasmine.'"

"That's a rare spelling," she says, scribbling out the first character of my name in lazy swoops.

She's gotten the stroke order wrong.

"No, that's—"

She looks up at me through the fringe of her hair, slim eyebrows raised in drowsy inquiry.

I avert my eyes with the excuse of checking the time. There's a large clock—cheap plastic make, with analog hands—tacked to one of the bookshelves behind the counter. It's nearly 5:30 already.

"I'm terribly sorry, I'm running late. May I show you my ID?"

"That's fine," she says.

I swivel my purse in front of me to retrieve my wallet. To my chagrin, however, I realize I've become a sitcom character, whose purse is overstuffed with useless knickknacks she's been meaning to clear out for weeks. I grope my way through not one, not two, but three packages of complimentary promotional tissues—aggressive shop employees will literally thrust them into your hands on the street; I've always been too self-conscious to decline—still my wallet is nowhere in sight, lost inside my suddenly cavernous purse. Feeling the clerk's eyes upon me, I mumble out a hurried apology, distracted, as I catch a silver gleam from the depths. Ah ha! Victory!As she writes out the cost and title of the book on the receipt, I lift the small, silver case from my purse and open it. With my thumb, I slip out one of my business cards and stow the case back in my purse.

It took me weeks to decide on the exact shade of cream color, the perfect card stock, the exquisite lettering. All that work, and... I hadn't exchanged cards with anyone in years. There was no reason for me to. I rarely attended work gatherings, and my time meeting new colleagues was largely spent serving them tea.

I hold the card at its corners, between thumb and forefinger on either side. I bend forward at the waist, and offer my card in the practiced, professional manner, moving to place it in the plastic tray by the register, which is meant for the transfer of change and other such items between the costumer and the store's employee.

My formality is not reciprocated. Before I can set it down, she pauses writing up the receipt and plucks my card away as casually as she retrieves her cigarette from the ashtray with her other hand. She takes a drag, scanning her eyes across the text.

"Mariko Kondo-san..." she murmurs, through a lazy exhalation of smoke.

A strange pressure squeezes my chest at the sound of my name running across her tongue. I take a swift breath through my nose.

"This is your business address?" With a squeak of pen, she defiles the surface of the card in permanent marker, circling my address, then my phone number. "Current number?"

"Y-yes, that's right."

She copies the characters of my name onto the receipt without another word. I busy myself scanning the nearby shelves for titles I recognize, scrawling my eyes over the cluster blue, green, and red covers of anthologies and old novels, trying to ram some sense back into my head. Just behind her, at eye level, there's a collection of post-war novels, carelessly stacked in a triangular heap. I recognize The Temple of the Golden Pavilion, and a flicker of potent nostalgia passes through me, even though I've never read it.

The clerk strips my copy of the receipt from the pad with a sharp tear. "Then I'll call if I have any questions. Thank you for your patronage."

"Yes, thank you." I stammer as I throw out a final, slight bow. Picking up the plastic bag, I turn to go.