601
“That’s a perplexing question,” she said, indeed looking a bit perplexed. “Most of
the smart young men head off to Tokyo as soon as they graduate from high school.
There are no good colleges here, and not enough decent jobs, either. They have no
other choice.”
“But you’re here.”
“Yes. Considering the lousy pay they give us, the work is pretty hard.
But I kind of
like living here. The problem is finding a boyfriend. I’m open to it if I find someone,
but there aren’t so many chances.”
The hands of the clock on the wall pointed to just before eleven. If he didn’t go
back to the inn by the eleven o’clock curfew, he wouldn’t be able to get in. But
Tengo
couldn’t rouse himself from the cramped love seat. His body just wouldn’t listen.
Maybe it was the shape of the chair, or maybe he was drunker than he thought. He
listened vaguely to the owl’s hooting, felt Kumi’s hair tickle his neck, and gazed at
the faux Tiffany lamp.
Kumi Adachi whistled cheerfully as she prepared the hashish. She used a safety razor
to slice thin slices
off a black ball of hash, stuffed the shavings into a small, flat pipe,
and then, with a serious look on her face, lit a match. A unique, sweetly smoky smell
soon filled the room. Kumi took the first hit. She inhaled deeply, held it in her lungs
for a long time, then slowly exhaled. She motioned to Tengo to do the same. Tengo
took the pipe and followed her example. He tried to hold the smoke in his lungs as
long as possible, and then let it out ever so slowly.
They leisurely passed the pipe back and forth, never exchanging a word. The
neighbor next door switched on his TV and they could hear the comedy show again.
The volume was a bit louder than before. The happy laughter of the studio audience
swelled up, the laughter only stopping during the commercials.
They took turns smoking for about five minutes, but nothing happened. The world
around Tengo was unchanged—colors, shapes, and smells were the same as before.
The owl kept on hooting in the woods, Kumi Adachi’s hair on his neck still itched.
The two-person love seat remained uncomfortable. The second hand on the clock
ticked away at the same speed and the people on TV kept on
laughing out loud when
someone said something funny, the kind of laugh that you could laugh forever but
never end up happy.
“Nothing’s happening,” Tengo said. “Maybe it doesn’t work on me.”
Kumi lightly tapped his knee twice. “Don’t worry. It takes time.”
And she was right. Finally it hit him. He heard a click, like a secret switch being
turned on, and then something inside his head sloshed thickly. It felt like tipping a
bowl of rice porridge sideways.
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