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During the hourlong cremation, Tengo and Kumi waited in the building’s lounge.
Kumi bought two cans of hot coffee from the vending machine and they silently
drank them as they sat side by side on a bench, facing a large picture window. Outside
was a spacious lawn, dried up now in the winter, and leafless trees. Two black birds
were on one of the branches. Tengo didn’t know what kind of bird they were. They
had
long tails, and though small, they gave loud, sharp squawks. When they called
out, their tails stood on end. Above the trees was the broad, cloudless, blue winter
sky. Beneath her cream-colored duffle coat, Kumi wore a short black dress. Tengo
wore a black crew-neck sweater under a dark gray herringbone jacket. His shoes were
dark brown loafers. It was the most formal outfit he owned.
“My father was cremated here too,” Kumi said. “All the people who attended were
smoking like crazy. There was a cloud of smoke hanging up near the ceiling. Maybe
to
be expected, since they were all fishermen.”
Tengo pictured it. A gaggle of sunburned men, uncomfortable in their dark suits,
puffing away, mourning a man who had died of lung cancer. Now, though, Tengo and
Kumi were the only ones in the lounge. It was quiet all around. Other than an
occasional chirp from the birds in the trees, nothing else broke the silence—no music,
no voices. Peaceful sunlight poured in through the picture window and formed a
taciturn puddle at their feet. Time was flowing leisurely, like a river approaching an
estuary.
“Thank you for coming with me,” Tengo said after the long silence.
Kumi reached out and put her hand on top of his. “It’s hard doing it alone. Better
to have somebody with you.”
“You may be right,” Tengo admitted.
“It’s a terrible
thing when a person dies, whatever the circumstances. A hole opens
up in the world, and we need to pay the proper respects. If we don’t, the hole will
never be filled in again.”
Tengo nodded.
“The hole can’t be left open,” Kumi went on, “or somebody might fall in.”
“But in some cases the dead person has secrets,” Tengo said. “And when the hole’s
filled in, those secrets are never known.”
“I think that’s necessary too.”
“How come?”
“Certain secrets can’t be left behind.”
“Why not?”
Kumi let go of his hand and looked at him right in the face. “There’s something
about those secrets that only the deceased person can rightly understand. Something
that can’t be explained, no matter how hard you try. They’re what the dead person has
to take with him to his grave. Like a valuable piece of luggage.”
Tengo silently looked down at the puddle of light at his feet. The linoleum floor
shone dully. In front of him were his worn loafers and Kumi’s simple black pumps.
They were right in front of him but looked miles away.
“There must be things about you, too, Tengo, that you can’t explain to others?”
“Could be,” Tengo replied.
Kumi didn’t say anything, and crossed her slim black-stockinged legs.
“You told me you
died once before, didn’t you?” Tengo asked.
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“Um. I did die once. On a lonely night when a cold rain was falling.”
“Do you remember it?”
“I think so. I’ve dreamt about it for a long time. A very realistic dream, always
exactly the same. So I have to believe that it happened.”
“Was it like reincarnation?”
“Reincarnation?”
“Where you’re reborn. Transmigration.”
Kumi gave it some thought. “I wonder. Maybe it was. Or maybe it wasn’t.”
“After you died, were you cremated like this?”
Kumi shook her head. “I don’t remember that far, since that would be after I died.
What I remember is the
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