Tag Archives: Japan

Inspector Imanishi Investigates by Seichō Matsumoto (tr. Beth Cary)

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Born in Fukuoka in 1909, Seichō Matsumoto was one of Japan’s most acclaimed crime writers, publishing over thirty novels and several short stories during the course of his prolific career. His books, which often explored elements of human psychology and the broader social context of post-war Japanese life, made him popular with the country’s readers and critics alike. More recently, a handful of his books have been published in translation by Penguin Books, introducing Matsumoto’s work to a much wider audience.

I’ve already read and can highly recommend Matsumoto’s debut novel Tokyo Express (1958), an excellent howdunnit-style mystery, taking in elements of duplicity, intrigue and corruption, partly played out across Japan’s rail network, and Suspicion (1982) a tight, noirish novella about a suspicious death, which explores how public opinion and media reporting can influence the justice system. This brings me to the 1961 novel, Inspector Imanishi Investigates, one of Matsumoto’s best-loved novels, and an ideal read for Karen and Simon’s #1961Club. Ostensibly a complex, slow-burning police procedural, Inspector Imanishi Investigates also offers an intriguing insight into Japanese society in the early 1960s, a time when social inequalities and post-WW2 malaise characterised the social landscape. While the pace is more leisurely than in the other two Matsumoto novels I’ve read, there’s plenty for fans of his work to enjoy here – not least Inspector Imanishi himself, who proves to be a very likeable detective with a fondness for collecting bonsai trees and composting haikus.

From the opening pages, Matsumoto pitches us straight into the action when early one morning, the mutilated body of a man is found on the train tracks at Tokyo’s Katama Station. Naturally, the police are called in, and Inspector Imanishi quickly establishes himself as a leading player in the team. Despite some dogged detective work, the victim’s identity proves stubbornly hard to establish. A man resembling the victim was seen in conversation with another man, possibly the murderer, at a nearby bar the previous evening, but interviews with the bar staff identify just two potential clues – the name ‘Kameda’ and a distinctive accent native to Tohoku, the northeastern part of Japan’s Honshu region.

What follows is a lengthy, complex investigation as Inspector Imanishi and his younger colleague, Yoshimura, try to unravel the mystery surrounding the victim’s death, which an autopsy soon establishes as strangulation. The case takes the pair on a journey across Japan, exposing readers to a cross-section of Japanese society at the time, from modest workers in traditional rural communities to the more glamorous and murky lives of bar hostesses and their clients in the capital city.

‘…One case after another, the work keeps coming. But even though you’re assigned to something else, this kind of case stays on your mind. I’ve been a detective now for a long time, and I’ve been involved with three or four cases that were never solved. They’re old cases, but they’re always in a corner of my mind. Every now and then they pop up. It’s strange. I don’t remember anything about the cases that were solved, but I can recall clearly the faces of each of the victims of the unsolved cases. Well, now there’s one more to give me bad dreams.’ (pp. 57-58)

Central to the mystery are the Nouveau group, a collective of groundbreaking musicians, directors and critics eager to revolutionise various aspects of the creative arts, and possibly politics as well. One member, the composer, Waga Eiryo, is widely feted for his mission to ‘destroy the nature’ of conventional music’, attracting legions of adoring fans. His engagement to the daughter of a former cabinet minister – also an artist in her own right – adds another touch of prestige to Waga’s standing in the public eye. Also key to the group is Sekigawa, an influential critic who will stop at nothing to keep his affair with a vulnerable bar hostess under wraps. The deeper Imanishi delves, the more convinced he becomes of the Nouveau group’s involvement in the victim’s murder, but precisely how and why remain tantalisingly out of reach…

He left Club Bonheur feeling that he had been put in a difficult position. As he walked Ginza’s back streets, he realized his own contradictory thoughts. Neither Emiko nor Sekigawa was the object of his investigation. It was absurd for him to be pursuing them. Yet he could not figure out Emiko’s sudden move from his sister’s place. He connected this hurried move to the fact that she had found out he was a detective. The elaborate precautions she took in moving were suspicious. She appeared to be hiding something. But strange behaviour wasn’t reason enough for a detective to pursue her. (p. 196)

Part of the pleasure of this absorbing novel is spending time with Inspector Imanishi, who comes across as a courteous and meticulous man, slightly troubled by his advancing age and wasting police resources on an investigation that is proving remarkably challenging to crack. There are various false leads and loose ends along the way, many of which prove frustrating for the seasoned detective, but some lucky breaks prove fruitful, too. In fact, one criticism of the mystery part of the novel might be the numerous coincidences that crop up during the plot – probably too many to be true! However, I’m giving Matsumoto a pass on this, particularly given his interest in the murkier aspects of Japanese society.

The killer’s identity is rooted in the destruction Japan experienced during WW2, a time of great devastation for some and new opportunities for others. The stigmas associated with poverty, disease and homelessness are also significant here, prompting the murderer to disassociate himself from his origins at a formative age. These themes of shifting identities and reinvention are often part of the fabric of British mysteries set during wartime, but it’s interesting to see them in a parallel context here.

It had been very clever of him to establish his supposed parents at number 120, 2 Ebisu-cho, Naniwa Ward, in Osaka. This was an area where all the original family registers had been destroyed in an air raid. His school and the city had also been largely destroyed during the war. There were traces of his past, but nowhere was there concrete proof to establish his personal history, a history he had taken such pains to hide. (p. 322)

The solution to the crime, which includes a scientific element, is somewhat far-fetched, but as with many mysteries of this type, it’s the investigation itself and the insights into human nature that are more engaging than the resolution itself.

So, all in all, an absorbing, slow-burning mystery that offers readers many interesting insights into Japanese society at the time. There are signs of a country grappling with the balance between traditional societies with formal customs / hierarchies and progressive groups eager to push more radical thinking – a tension that provides plenty of opportunity for intriguing fiction, as Matsumoto discovered during his illustrious career.

Inspector Imanishi Investigates is published by Penguin Books; personal copy.

Under the Eye of the Big Bird by Hiromi Kawakami (tr. Asa Yoneda)

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The award-winning Japanese writer Hiromi Kawakami first came to prominence with her beautiful, meditative novella Strange Weather in Tokyo (tr. Allison Markin Powell), which was shortlisted for the 2014 Independent Foreign Fiction Prize (now merged with the International Booker).

First published in Japanese in 2016 and translated into English in 2024, Under the Eye of the Big Bird is somewhat different from this earlier book, adopting a speculative approach to big, existential themes, including evolution, societal structures and the possible extinction of humanity. The form of this fictional work is somewhat experimental too, comprising a series of fourteen interlinked stories set in the distant future, each providing a different piece of the jigsaw for the reader to assemble. Some characters reappear, while in other instances, the same scenario is explored from a different perspective, adding another view. It’s a very intriguing concept, both in terms of content and structure; nevertheless, this piecemeal approach makes for a (deliberately?) disorientating reading experience that some might find frustrating. Perseverance does lead to a payoff, partly because the penultimate story helps to illuminate the bigger picture, clarifying and connecting the vignettes that precede it.

A few words on the set-up. Following an unspecified sequence of cataclysmic events, the global population has been in free fall for some time, leaving humanity on the brink of extinction. Many countries (as we currently know them) have vanished and those that remain are barely operating as states. Consequently, a plan is developed to separate the remaining human population into isolated regions with strictly no movement allowed between these regional groups. The idea behind this model is to create environments in which the genetic conditions required for successful evolution can take hold. Moreover, it is proposed that the evolutionary process is accelerated by piling on extreme stress, thereby hastening the development of mutations, etc. 

Communities of humans would be separated into a number of regions and isolated from one another completely. Watchers would be placed in each region to maintain continuous observation over the population. All reproductive taboos would be lifted, while mechanisms of competition would be managed carefully in order to mitigate the effects of survival of the fittest and preserve as much genetic diversity as possible. (p. 77)

Through these thoughtful, unsettling vignettes, Kawakami offers the reader various windows into the different communities within this test-bed environment, focusing on the familial and societal structures that have evolved over time. In other words, she seems particularly interested in the ways in which humans and societies might change as the world around them shifts to a new paradigm. (In total, this non-linear novel spans thousands of years, and we’re never quite sure where we are in this timeframe as the stories play out.)

Various elements are explored, from human nature and behaviour to the development of new skills, abilities, and even different physical forms. Emotions and feelings also come under scrutiny, as does sexual behaviour – while the latter is mostly thought of as a means of reproduction, it’s not the only method in existence here.

As this novel-in-stories unfolds, it becomes apparent that the regions are being monitored by ‘watchers’ – clones that are part-human, part-AI, initially selected for their excellent observational skills. While the watchers are only supposed to observe, gather data and report any potential abnormalities back to the ‘mothers’ – a network of AIs with a shared awareness of one another – occasionally, one goes rogue. In ‘The Lake’, a roaming watcher is appalled by what they consider to be depraved sexual behaviour amongst a particular community. Thus, the watcher takes it upon themself to destroy this group by poisoning the nearby lake, tampering with a vital element for the inhabitants’ existence.

In Keepsakes, we encounter a community in which children seem to be produced in factories from animal origins – ‘human-derived stem cells are fragile’, the inference being that they’re unsuitable for stable procreation. To add a twist, the identity of the specific animal (mouse, horse, kangaroo, etc.) used for each individual can only be determined once they are dead. The lifespan of each being is relatively short, with children reaching maturity in a few years. Meanwhile, a mother may raise fifty children in her lifetime – it’s hard to keep count! – all in the service of preserving life.

Probably the most compelling vignette is Green Garden, in which a teenage girl, Rien (the story’s narrator), and her close friend, Hawa, learn about the existence of men.

We’ll need to think about a man, my mother started to say.

A man. The sound of the word was strange to me. At that time, I had yet to see a man, but my mother had told me about them often. (p. 28)

This is an environment in which women have no control over their own bodies. Men are very scarce, with fewer than twenty to be shared between all the fertile women in the region; consequently, these men travel around, having sex with various young women, all in the name of procreation.

My mother had taught me how my body had the ability to take in a man’s sperm, and how one of my eggs could be infiltrated by the man’s sperm and start dividing, just as a plant was pollinated and made seed. But whether the ordeal would befall me that night, not for a long time yet, or thankfully never—that was far beyond my ken.

That’s for the man to decide, my mother had said.

Why? Why can’t it be for me to decide? I asked, affronted.

In the far past, there were times that women decided, and times that women and men decided together by talking, and times when it didn’t need thinking about at all—or so they say. Of course, at that time, there was an equal number of women and men, not like we have now, when there are fewer than twenty for all so many of us. (p. 31)

In time, both Rien and Hawa give birth to four children fathered by the same man, prompting the arrival of the mothers to help raise these families. All seems to be going well until Rien’s eldest daughter turns eighteen (the designated age for motherhood to commence), and a man named Kuan comes to visit. In an ironic twist, Rien develops feelings for Kuan, who by now is the father of her grandchild. Complications inevitably ensue, prompting the mothers to intervene…

Elsewhere, we meet various groups with special powers – for instance, ‘scanners’, can read other individuals’ minds, leading to complications when emotions are uncovered and probed. Some beings can predict the future, while others can photosynthesise or breathe through their gills.

In ‘The Miracle Worker’, Kawakami explores ideas of faith, belief systems and the possibility of a higher power watching over the world. Here we encounter Aisha, a young girl with the ability to predict the future (e.g. the imminent coming of a catastrophic storm). In time, Aisha’s miracle powers develop, enabling her to ‘cure’ various conditions – a blind woman’s sight is restored; a cripple is able to walk again, and a drug addict is freed from her dependency, all after responding to Aisha’s touch. As the girl’s reputation spreads, a religious movement develops, akin to the models that evolved amongst our own civilisation thousands of years ago.

Wherever Aisha went, she was met with rapturous welcomes. Even among the believers who followed her, a hierarchy started to form. Those closest to her took care of her needs and received her guidance, which they then relayed to the other believers.

Temples to Aisha sprung up in many locations. There were statues made in Aisha’s image and books made of Aisha’s teachings, allowing her followers to venerate her even in her absence. This stimulated new economic activity around Aisha: not just direct commerce involving the offerings made to her and the trade in related goods and services, but a wider-ranging social expansion accompanying the increases in mobility, construction, and infrastructure and changes in people’s way of living. The circulation of currency continued to complexify. (p. 159–160)

Other vignettes focus on the mothers and the watchers, including clones of the two visionary watchers, Ian and Jakob, who developed the plan for regionalised units in this experimental new world.

The communities were varied, and there was no overt communication between them at all. Each one already had its own history, a past, a culture. Over the thirty years I’d been on the road, I’d seen firsthand just how dramatically they differed. From subtle variations to major differences of values, if I started listing them, I’d never reach the end. It really makes me wonder that these humans should be so various. It’s commonplace for what is correct in one community to have precisely the opposite significance in another. There are some that attack without warning to drive me out as soon as I approach, while others greet me with astonishing curiosity. (p.108)

As the novel draws to a close, we sense a breakdown of these new societies on the horizon. Movement between the formerly isolated regions becomes increasingly common, putting the conditions for the continuation of humanity at risk. Many watchers go AWOL, while the mothers also seem to withdraw, placing them out of reach of the few dedicated watchers that remain. There is a sense too of humans failing to learn from their mistakes, even when teetering on the edge of a precipice. Instead, they simply repeat the same patterns of behaviour that we will recognise from our own world – a civilisation where love seems inextricably entwined with hate, frequently leading to conflict, jealousy, frustration and a fear of the ‘other’ or unfamiliar. As before, Kawakami doesn’t push these challenges to boiling point; rather, the ideas are seeded for us to consider.

The ending is left somewhat open, allowing the reader to imagine the possible future for humanity, the shape of which might well depend on whether they are a half-full or half-empty kind of person. All in all, this is an intriguing piece of speculative fiction, full of fascinating ideas. Having said that, I do wonder whether it might have been more compelling to focus on fewer evolutionary models (or parts of the jigsaw), thereby allowing a deeper exploration of each scenario and the issues involved. There are so many questions and unknowns here – but then again, maybe that’s partly the point Kawakami is trying to make.

Under the Eye of the Big Bird is published by Granta; my thanks to the publishers and Independent Alliance for kindly providing a reading copy.

Suspicion by Seichō Matsumoto (tr. Jesse Kirkwood)

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The Japanese crime writer Seichō Matsumoto has been experiencing something of a renaissance in recent years, largely due to the Penguin reissues of some of his fiction. Tokyo Express proved a hit with many readers, myself included, with Inspector Imanishi Investigates following suit, strengthening the interest in this writer’s work. Despite not publishing his first book until the age of forty, Matsumoto was prolific, quickly gaining critical and public acclaim as a leading writer of crime fiction who often incorporated elements of human psychology and societal issues into his work. First published in Japanese in 1982, Suspicion has recently been translated into English by Jesse Kirkwood, making it an instant buy for me.

In this tight, noirish novella about a suspicious death, Matsumoto considers how public opinion and media reporting can influence the balance of judgement between a suspect’s innocence and guilt. Loosely based on an actual crime from 1974, Suspicion explores a fictional case from an unusual angle. Rather than following the more traditional format of a police procedural or criminal trial, Matsumoto tells his story through a series of meetings between an influential journalist, Akitani, who has reported extensively on the case in question (particularly the defendant’s reputation as a femme fatale), and the defendant’s lawyers. Interestingly, we never hear directly from the accused herself; instead, everything is filtered through conversations between Akitani and the suspect’s counsellors, together with some brief notes from the trial. It’s a quick, compelling read, ideal holiday reading for anyone interested in the ambiguities that can skew public opinion.

Central to the case is Kumako Onizuka, a voluptuous, volatile bar hostess with links to the Yakuza and a string of convictions to her name. One day at work, Onizuka meets Shirakawa, a rich widower in his late-fifties, who quickly falls under her spell. Still grieving the loss of his wife and the recent death of his adult son in a tragic accident, Shirakawa becomes increasingly involved with thirty-something Onizuka, much to the dismay of his grandchildren.

When Onizuka learned from Shirakawa’s client that he was a big Hokuriku landowner, her greed kicked in. She began sweet-talking him into submission; a wealthy country bumpkin like Shirakawa was putty in her hands. That very evening at her insistence, they slept at a love hotel – and from then on, he was besotted. (pp. 5–6)

Before long, the couple are married, but the first flushes of love soon die out. Four months after his wedding, Shirakawa tells a close friend that marrying Onizuka has turned out to be a huge mistake. Rather than being the affectionate soulmate he once envisaged, Onizuka is ‘obstinate, hysterical and manically greedy’; plus, her history with the Yakuza has now come to light. A divorce sweetened by an affordable severance payment might prove tricky for Shirakawa to pull off, especially given the intensity of Onizuka’s greed; nevertheless, he seems determined to find a way out. There’s also the suggestion that his wife might try to kill him at some point, but that’s probably a throwaway remark on Shirakawa’s part – one of those heat-of-the-moment comments that slip out under stress.

A few months later, disaster strikes. One rainy evening as the couple are driving home from a trip, their car veers off the road, plunging into the sea, which shatters the car windscreen on impact. Onizuka, who claims she was travelling in the passenger seat at the time, manages to escape the wreckage and swims to safety. Shirakawa, on the other hand, perishes in the ‘accident’ because he cannot swim.

With her volatile personality and infamous reputation, Onizuka soon comes under suspicion of murdering her husband, particularly when various life insurance policies taken out on her husband come to light. As it turns out, Onizuka stands to inherit 300 million yen following her husband’s death, giving her a compelling motive for premeditated murder. Therefore, the police (and others) hypothesise that Onizuka was driving the car when it plunged into the sea, not Shirakawa as she has claimed.

During every interview, Onizuka vehemently maintains her innocence, and no direct evidence of her guilt can be found. In fact, all evidence against the defendant is purely circumstantial, despite a few puzzling loose ends. Nevertheless, as a result of Akitani’s damning exposés of Onizuka’s volatile character and previous convictions, this infamous femme fatale has already been deemed guilty by the court of public opinion, even though there is no concrete evidence against her. The fact that her name ‘Oni’ suggests ‘demon’ simply adds fuel to the fire.

[Akitani:] ‘…But an acquittal would still get people round here pretty riled up. To them, it’ll look like someone who obviously murdered her husband has somehow slipped free of the law’s clutches.’

[Defence lawyer:] ‘Well, you media people are the ones who created that narrative in the first place.’

‘The woman has a criminal record with four separate offences on it!’

‘Yes, but the idea that because she broke the law in the past, she must have killed her husband is grounded and nothing but emotion. Those are two entirely separate things.’ (p. 17)

Given Onizuka’s clear links to the Yakuza and penchant for subjecting her enemies to violent ‘courtesy calls’, Akitani is worried sick that she might be acquitted. Onizuka and her Yakuza heavies would almost certainly pay the reporter and his family a visit if she were released, especially after Akitani’s sensationalist articles on her character.

What would happen if Onizuka was acquitted? She’d sue him for libel, that much was certain. But that wouldn’t be enough for her. Knowing her twisted personality, she’d probably opt for a more personal form of revenge – one of her ‘courtesy calls’.

As he clutched his head in his hands, a single image presented itself to Akitani: Onizuka bursting into his home with her Shinjuku gangsters, intent on exacting her violent revenge. The very idea made him shudder. (pp. 37–38)

So, with these fears in mind, Akitani pledges to stay close to the defence lawyers, hoping their efforts to establish Onizuka’s innocence prove fruitless…

To Akitani’s immense relief, Onizuka’s original attorney withdraws from the case for health reasons, and his colleague, a hotshot lawyer from Tokyo, also declines the case. Consequently, the court appoints Onizuka a defence lawyer, someone with a strong grounding in civil law but little experience of criminal cases. At first, Akitani is delighted, feeling sure this new chap, Sahara, will be way out of his depth; however, as the case progresses, Sahara proves himself more than up to the job, exposing the ambiguities in the prosecution’s raft of circumstantial evidence piece by piece.

Through Sahara’s meticulous approach to the trial, Matsumoto shows us how the prosecution’s case rests on a series of assumptions and ambiguities, highlighting the danger of putting too much weight behind circumstantial evidence alone. In the end, Sahara not only picks apart the prosecution’s case against his client, laying bare its inherent weaknesses, but he also becomes increasingly convinced of the existence of some material evidence to prove her innocence. If only he could make sense of the remaining clues – a spanner and one of the drowned man’s shoes – the case against Onizuka would be thrown out of court.

The denouement, when it comes, includes an ironic twist, highlighting the lengths some individuals will go to when placed under threat. Some readers might find it a little abrupt; nevertheless, I liked the starkness of it, even though I’d figured out where it was heading beforehand. The story also reminded me of Yasuzō Masumura’s brilliant film A Wife Confesses, a courtroom drama about a wife on trial for murdering her older husband, which is well worth seeing if you ever get a chance.

In summary, then, this is a very interesting exploration of a suspicious death from a somewhat different angle from the norm. Matsumoto does a fine job of showing us how public opinion and media reporting can influence the balance of judgement between a suspect’s innocence and guilt.  Our subjective impressions can fashion a very different picture of a situation from the one supported by hard evidence and facts, something Matsumoto skilfully illustrates in this book. There’s also the occasional passage of nicely judged descriptive writing, investing the story with a clear sense of place. I’ll finish with the novella’s opening, which really sets the scene.

It was the beginning of October. Autumn came early in the Hokuriku region, but it would still be some time before the leaves began to turn. From the prefectural capital of T—,  fresh snow could be seen on the highest peaks of the Tateyama mountain range, which separated the province of Etchū from that of Shinano to the east. (p. 1)

Tokyo Express by Seichō Matsumoto (tr. Jesse Kirkwood)

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Born in Fukuoka in 1909, Seichō Matsumoto was one of Japan’s most acclaimed crime writers. His books, which often incorporated elements of human psychology and the broader social context of post-war Japanese life, made him popular with readers and critics alike. Le Monde termed him ‘The Simenon of Japan’, and having just read Tokyo Express, Matsumoto’s first full-length detective novel, I can understand why. Originally published in Japan in 1958 and translated into English by Jesse Kirkwood in 2022, Tokyo Express is an excellent, thoroughly involving mystery, taking in elements of duplicity, intrigue and corruption, partly played out across Japan’s uber-efficient rail network. I loved this wonderfully clever ‘howdunit’ and plan to pick up more books by Matsumoto in the future.

The mystery centres on two dead bodies – a man and a woman – found lying side by side on Kashii Beach in southern Japan. Both are well dressed, the man in Western-style clothing and the young woman in a silk kimono, with no signs of a struggle having occurred before their deaths.

Her face was an almost rosy pink. Beneath a dark grey winter coat she wore a maroon silk kimono, its white collar slightly loose at the neck. Her clothes were immaculate. Lying there gracefully, she seemed to be merely sleeping. The hem of her kimono fluttered in the wind, revealing its yellow lining. (p. 11)

The couple’s rosy cheeks point to potassium cyanide poisoning as the cause of death in both cases, strongly suggesting a ‘love suicide’, especially given the lack of anything more suspicious about their appearance when found.

The deceased are soon identified as Kenichi Sayama, an Assistant Section Chief in a government ministry, and Toki Kuwayama, a waitress at a Tokyo restaurant. Moreover, further evidence emerges to suggest the pair had been lovers – for instance, they were seen boarding a train together at Tokyo station six days before their deaths. Nevertheless, Inspector Torigai, a careworn, experienced detective from the local police, harbours doubts about this verdict…

In essence, Torigai is troubled by certain inconsistencies that don’t seem to fit the typical profile for a love suicide. For instance, after boarding the train from Tokyo with Toki, Sayama checked into an inn near Hakata the following day, staying there alone under an assumed name until the day of his death. Why had Sayama been on his own at the inn for five days? Where did Toki go during that time, and what was she doing before the night of their joint suicide? She certainly didn’t stay at the inn…

The question of a railway dining car receipt for one person, found on Sayama following his death, is also puzzling. The docket was issued on the day the couple left Tokyo, but why did Sayama dine alone on the train that evening? Where was Toki then?

The case moves up a notch when Torigai receives a visit from Kiichi Mihara, a thoughtful young Inspector from the Tokyo Met Police. It turns out that the dead man, Sayama, was a key witness, and possibly even a suspect, in a major bribery scandal currently being investigated by Mihara’s division. In fact, the deeper the investigators dig, the more they realise how much Sayama must have known about the fraud.

As Mihara looks into the supposed love suicide, he too feels uneasy about the inconsistencies Torigai has raised – and this, together with the corruption scandal connection, deepens his suspicions about the circumstances surrounding the deaths.

What follows is a very compelling police procedural as Inspector Mahari scrupulously builds up a detailed picture of Sayama’s and Toki’s movements in the days leading up to their deaths, further developing Torigai’s excellent groundwork along the way. Moreover, a third person of interest is soon swept into the inquiry, cementing the theory that the bribery scandal plays a role in the case. In fact, the more Mihara uncovers, the more he wonders whether Sayama committed suicide voluntarily, was forced into it by someone else or even poisoned surreptitiously…

Everything converges on Sayama. It seems he was quite the skilled operator. His suicide has blown a hole in the public prosecutor’s investigation. In reality, it was Sayama who formed the invisible link between all the senior officials. He was the linchpin. With him gone, they’re tearing their hair out at the prosecutor’s office. He left a gap behind that seems to get wider and wider the more they investigate. Meanwhile, the higher-ups will be breathing a sigh of relief. (p. 114)

Much of the investigative legwork involves working out where each key player happened to be during the six or seven days in question, with train routes, timetables, stations and passenger lists proving crucial at critical points in the timeline. On various occasions, Mihara finds himself facing a metaphorical brick wall, mainly because his chief suspect has built up a seemingly watertight alibi, placing them in locations hundreds of miles away from Kashii Beach on the days surrounding the two deaths. Nevertheless, the following sage advice from Torigai, whom Mihara keeps in touch with during the investigation, is pivotal in sparking a breakthrough in the case:

We all fall prey to preconceptions that make us take certain things for granted. This is a dangerous thing. Our slavish reliance on our own common sense creates a blind spot. I believe that, in an investigation, even the most elementary assumptions must be broken down and examined afresh. (p. 119)

While we think we know who was responsible for the couple’s deaths from an early stage in the novel, Matsumoto adds a little twist towards the end, which I didn’t see coming, adding a little surprise to the main howdunit thread. There are some interesting psychological insights here, fleshing out the characters as the story unfolds.

Matsumoto does a particularly nice job of highlighting the contrasts between the two detectives, who maintain a gentle, thoughtful respect for one another despite their different backgrounds and complementary skills. While Mihara is young, bright and analytical, at home in the fast-paced city, Torigai is middle-aged, modest and careworn. A slightly crumpled, hard-working man dedicated to his profession, Torigai comes across as a sympathetic, experienced policeman, and his bond with the younger detective is lovely to observe.

Torigai quietly undressed. His suit was worn, its lining frayed. Dust and sand had gathered in the cuffs of his trousers, and now fell with a patter here and there on the tatami. It was as though he were shedding all the exhaustion of his long day walking on to the floor. (p. 20)

The sense of place is also beautifully evoked, particularly the Hakata Bay area, where Kashii Beach can be found.

…the road to the mountains leads to a former imperial shrine. Head across the sea, however, and you reach a shore that looks out across Hakata bay. It is a beautiful view: in front, a thin spit of land known as Umi-no-Nakamichi girdles the bay, the half-island of Shikanoshima rising from the sea at its farthest reach, while off to the left the hazy outline of Nokonoshima island is faintly visible (p. 10)

Moreover, Matsumoto has an excellent eye for detail, helping to convey the story’s melancholy mood, especially surrounding Sayama’s and Toki’s tragic deaths.

A cold wind was blowing, and the banners outside the shops fluttered forlornly. Stars glittered in sharp relief against the black sky. (p. 38)

All in all, Tokyo Express is an excellent, thoroughly involving howdunit, taking in elements of duplicity, intrigue and government corruption in post-war Japan. There are signs of a country grappling with the balance between traditional institutions with formal customs/hierarchies and a more progressive environment with a growing economy focused on financial performance, which add to the broader context of the story.

Very highly recommended indeed, especially for fans of mysteries involving detailed investigative work and intriguing puzzles.

Tokyo Express is published by Penguin Books; personal copy.

Thousand Cranes by Yasunari Kawabata (tr. Edward G. Seidensticker)

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The Japanese writer Yasunari Kawabata is perhaps best known for Snow Country, the story of a doomed love affair between a wealthy city-based man and an innocent young geisha who lives in a remote area by the mountains. It is a work of great poetic beauty and subtlety – and yet there is something strange and unsettling about this novella, a quality that makes it hard to pin down. The same could be said of Thousand Cranes, in which a young man, Kikuji Mitani, becomes entangled with two of his deceased father’s former mistresses with tragic results.

As the novel opens, Kikuji is en route to a tea ceremony being hosted by one of his father’s mistresses, Chikako, a poisonous woman intent on meddling with his life. In fact, Chikako is determined to introduce Kikuji to one of her pupils, Yukiko Inamura, as a potential marriage partner. He just needs to give his approval and all the arrangements will be made. However, the occasion evokes disturbing memories for Kikuji, who once saw a large birthmark, the size of a palm, on Chikako’s left breast during an unguarded moment with his father several years ago.

Chikako had drifted away after his father’s death. Did she mean to use the Inamura girl as bait to draw him near again? Was he again to become entangled with her? (p. 28)

To complicate matters further, Mrs Ota – another of Kikuji’s father’s mistresses – and her daughter, Fumiko, are also present at the tea ceremony, adding to the tension. While Mr Mitani’s affair with Chikako had been short-lived, his subsequent relationship with Mrs Ota lasted until his death, much to Chikako’s annoyance.

Chikako of course became his mother’s ally – indeed a too hard-working ally. She prowled after his father, she frequently went to threaten Mrs Ota. All her own latent jealousy seemed to explode. (p. 8)

One of the most striking things about this novel is the juxtaposition of beauty and savagery as the serene nature of the tea ceremony becomes tainted with Chikako’s petty jealousies. It is no coincidence that Chikako makes us of a tea bowl that once belonged to the Otas during the event, emphasising her former bond with Kikuji’s father in a public display of spite.

Kikuji remembered the tea bowl Chikako had placed before the girl. It had indeed belonged to his father, and his father had received it from Mrs Ota.

And what of Mrs Ota, seeing at the ceremony today a bowl that had been treasured by her dead husband and passed from Kikuji’s father to Chikako? Kikuji was astounded at Chikako’s tactlessness. (p. 11)

Wary of becoming a pawn in a manipulative game, Kikuji dismisses Chikako’s attempts at matchmaking despite Yukiko Inamura’s elegance. Instead, he becomes embroiled in a strange love triangle with the guilt-ridden Mrs Ota and her vulnerable daughter, Fumiko. It would be unfair of me to reveal how this story plays out, save to say that it’s subtly told.

This is a novel in which every gesture is meaningful, drawing the reader into a world where longing and regret mingle with jealousy and resentment. Central to the story is the notion that the sins of the parents are visited upon their children, highlighting the potential challenges in breaking this cycle in a conventional country such as Japan. The traditional tea bowls are also highly symbolic here, having passed from one owner to the next through the generations – and, in some instances, from one family to another, mirroring the various extramarital affairs that have taken place. As ever with Kawabata, the prose is wonderfully poetic, delicately conveying the story like the brushstrokes of a watercolour taking shape on the page.

The light was really too bright for a tea cottage, but it made the girl’s youth glow. The tea napkin, as became a young girl, was red, and it impressed one less with its softness than with its freshness, as if the girl’s hand were bringing a red flower into bloom. (p. 13)

This haunting, elegant story first appeared in serialised form between 1949 and 1951, with the book following in 1952. Interestingly, Kawabata did not view the novella as an evocation of the formal and spiritual beauty of the tea ceremony. Rather, he considered it ‘an expression of doubt about and warning against the vulgarity into which the tea ceremony has fallen’. A reflection of his views on Japanese society, perhaps, as the country grappled with the balance between tradition and modernity in the post-war period.

Thousand Cranes is published by Penguin Modern Classics; personal copy.

The Premonition by Banana Yoshimoto (tr. Asa Yoneda)

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Over the past few years, I’ve developed a fondness for Japanese fiction, particularly books by women writers such as Yūko Tsushima, Mieko Kawakami and Sayaka Murata. Now I can add Banana Yoshimoto to this list courtesy of The Premonition, a haunting, enigmatic story of childhood, long-buried memories and the complex nature of family relationships. Although the novella was first published in Japan in 1988 – the same year as the author’s award-winning book, Kitchen appeared – it has only just made its way into English, beautifully translated by Asa Yoneda. I found this to be a very captivating, dreamlike read. Yoshimoto creates an alluring, melancholy mood here, exploring these themes with the lightest of touches. 

Our narrator is Yayoi, a nineteen-year-old girl who lives in Tokyo with her parents and younger brother, Tetsuo. On the surface, life for Yayoi seems perfect. Her father works as a doctor for a large corporation while her mother, a former nurse, looks after the newly refurbished house, a paragon of middle-class domesticity. Both children are surrounded by love and support, just like the family ‘in that Spielberg movie’. But deep down, Yayoi is haunted by the feeling that she has forgotten something crucial about the past. Her childhood remains a mystery, a troubling gap where treasured memories should exist. Sometimes, a strange feeling resurfaces, causing Yayoi to feel she is on the verge of recalling an important detail, but each time the memory itself remains tantalisingly out of reach.

Things come to a head one Sunday while Yayoi is helping her mother with the gardening. Suddenly, she is assailed by a vision, a rush of images flitting through her mind like scenes glimpsed from a speeding car. A woman’s hand places some flowers in a vase; a seemingly happy couple can be seen from behind; and a young girl, who appears to be Yayoi’s sister, looks up at a window calling Yayoi’s name. But the trouble is, Yayoi doesn’t have a sister – at least, not that she is aware of…

The same day, Yayoi also learns through a conversation with her mother that she experienced premonitions as a young child. Whenever the phone rang at home, Yayoi could predict who was calling, even when she didn’t know them personally. Sites of former tragedies proved another crucial trigger for the girl, prompting her to sense where fatal accidents or incidents had occurred. She could even tell when her parents had been fighting in secret, such was the power of her intuition – an unsettling sixth sense that waned over time.

Unsettled by these disturbing events, Yayoi decides to visit her Aunt Yukino, an eccentric thirty-year-old woman who lives a solitary, unstructured life in isolation from her family. Intriguingly, the novella opens with a description of Yukino’s house, setting the novella’s lush, dreamlike tone right from the very start – like a dark, unsettling fairy tale with an enigmatic aura.

I can see it now: The heavy door made of wood had a cloudy brass knob. The weeds in the neglected garden grew thick and lush, stretching tall among the dying trees, shutting out the sky. Vines carpeted the dark exterior walls, and the windows were patched haphazardly with tape. The dust covering the floor rose and danced translucent in the sunlight before settling again. A comfortable clutter reigned, and dead light bulbs were left in peace. Time had no foothold in that house. Until I turned up, my aunt had lived there quietly on her own, as though asleep, for years. (pp. 3–4)

In contrast to the rest of her family, Yukino lives an unconventional life, abandoning the normal routines that govern our daily existence. Time seems elastic here, expanding and contracting irrespective of the outside world and its 24-hour clock. Consequently, mealtimes are either irregular or non-existent, while drinks at 2 am seem a natural occurrence, contrary to conventional expectations. But despite this erratic lifestyle, Yayoi feels more at ease here than at home, bonding with her aunt in a natural, relaxed manner.

She was so much older, and when I was with her, I felt like I had nothing to fear. Not the dark of night, nor everything I still didn’t know about myself. Strange to think how I’d always felt anxious in my warm home, yet here, where daily life felt so precarious, I was fulfilled. (p. 48)

In due course, further revelations come to light, illuminating Yayoi’s relationships with her family and the source of her buried memories – but I’ll leave you to discover those for yourself, should you decide to read the book.

The elegant melody awakened a sweet feeling in me, as if I’d once spent long days just like that, watching sounds, somewhere in the distant past. Listening with my eyes closed, I felt as though I were at the bottom of a green ocean. All the world seemed to be lit up by shafts of light. The current moved limpidly, and in it, my troubles skimmed past me like schools of fish barely brushing against my skin. I had a premonition of setting out on a journey and getting lost inside a distant tide as the sun went down, ending up far, far away from where I started. (p. 16)

On the surface, Yoshimoto’s prose feels crystalline and precise, and yet this calm exterior acts as a cover for hidden depths. There’s something dreamlike and unsettling here, mirroring Yayoi’s unease about elusive memories from her past, a previous loss or trauma lurking beneath this veneer. It’s a style that allows the author to tackle some troublesome themes, from family secrets and unconventional life choices to isolation and love between siblings, in a gentle but meaningful way.

Like Yūko Tsushima, Yoshimoto writes beautifully about light, from the first rays of sun falling gently on the eyelids to the spectral glow of moonlight illuminating the dark.

The world outside the window seemed to be floating in bluish light that turned the trees into layered black paper cutouts. I could have watched their rustling outlines endlessly. (p. 64)

The narrative ends in a journey when Yukino disappears and Yayoi and her brother Tetsuo – a determined, enterprising young man, barely younger than his sister – set out to find her. For Yayoi, the need to fully understand the past proves crucial to her future development, finally cementing the foundations of her identity in place. Once again, Yoshimoto excels in creating atmosphere here, enveloping the reader in a magical, dreamlike mood.

In the pitch-black wood, between dark-windowed houses that rose like ghosts in the dark, through the faint rays of moonlight, we walked. Deep green air seemed to ripple out into the night sky every time the wind shook the trees’ leafy, slumbering branches. (p. 87)

In summary, then, The Premonition is a haunting, enigmatic story of identity, long-buried memories and blended, extended families. As I read this book, I couldn’t help but think of the Japanese filmmaker Hirokazu Kore-eda, whose tender portraits of complex, unconventional family dynamics have something in common with Yoshimoto’s themes. Highly recommended, especially for fans of haunting, dreamlike fiction with an elusive edge.

The Premonition is published by Faber; my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.

All the Lovers in the Night by Mieko Kawakami (tr. Sam Bett and David Boyd)

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First published in Japan in 2011 and translated into English last year, All the Lovers in the Night is another superb novel by the hugely talented Japanese writer Mieko Kawakami. (I now want to read pretty much everything she has written.) On the surface, this book appears to be a thoughtful, meditative portrayal of loneliness, isolation and alienation – all very familiar aspects of Japanese fiction featuring young, unmarried women living their lives outside of conventional societal ‘norms’. Nevertheless, Kawakami subverts readers’ expectations by disrupting her protagonist’s seemingly placid existence in highly impactful ways, widening the novel’s scope to touch on issues such as casual cruelty, toxic work-based relationships, alcoholism and more. This is a luminous, devastating, beautifully written novel, deftly conveying the piercing sensory experience of life in this young woman’s world.

Central to the novel is Fuyuko, a thirty-four-year-old freelance proofreader who works from home in her Tokyo flat. Fuyuko’s life is a solitary one. She has no close friends to speak of, and there are no mentions of family or other support networks at hand. Consequently, her days are spent diligently poring over texts, looking for and correcting mistakes.

As the novel opens, Fuyuko’s one regular contact is Hijiri, the self-assured, go-getting copy editor who supplies her with work. In many respects, Hijiri appears to be the polar opposite of Fuyuko. A competitive career woman unafraid to argue her point, Hijiri tries to get closer to Fuyuko, knowing she can trust this contractor to deliver on assignments.

In truth, Fuyuko is paralysed by fear and loneliness, so scared of being hurt that she avoids getting involved with others as far as possible. Everything in her life seems to have happened by default: the college she attended; the office job she fell into following graduation; her transition to proofreading on a freelance basis. None of these were active choices or decisions on Fuyuko’s part; rather they had simply come about naturally or by accident.

If I thought about things long enough, I would always lose track of my own feelings, which left me with no choice but to proceed as usual, without taking any action. (p. 15)

(There are some interesting parallels here between Fukuyo’s role as a proofreader and the way she lives her life, the eradication of mistakes being a key factor in both.)

As the novel unfolds, we learn more of Fuyuko’s backstory – for instance, how uncomfortable she felt working as a proofreader in an office full of women, all keen to chat about their lives outside work. Kawakami is so good at conveying the crushing impact of casual cruelty in these environments, especially for people like Fuyuko who find it difficult to integrate – possibly due to shyness or their status as ‘outsiders’.

No one ever spoke to me unless they needed something, and when candy or cookies showed up during the workday, the box always went right past me and moved along to the next desk. It would have been one thing if the others had literally left me alone, but their indifference, over time, showed hints of bitterness, which became apparent in their silence and their looks, to the point where going to work became difficult to bear. (p. 14)

The first half of the novel quietly unfurls as Fuyuko goes about her days, working diligently on her manuscripts, trying to remain objective, distancing herself from any emotional investment in a book’s characters or story. One day, she catches sight of her reflection in a mirror, highlighting her isolation and the smallness of her existence. Consequently, Fuyuko begins drinking to loosen up, a habit that gradually increases to worrying levels as the weeks slip by…

As I passed below the haloes of the green and red traffic signals, I was taken by this strange view of the evening, the city streets full of people—people waiting, the people they were waiting for, people out to eat together, people going somewhere together, people heading home together. I allowed my thoughts to settle on the brightness filling their hearts and lungs, squinting as I walked along and counted all the players of this game that I would never play. (p. 88)

Then, just by chance, Fuyuko meets an older man, Mitsutsuka, at a cultural centre. At fifty-eight, this gentle physics teacher is much older than Fuyuko; nevertheless, the pair seem to have some kind of connection with one another and they continue to meet for coffee at a café in the city. As this tender, unconventional relationship evolves, we wonder whether this might be an opportunity for Fuyuko to experience something new and fulfilling – and if so, what impact this will have on her future.

Something that Kawakami does so well here is to explore the lives of young Japanese women by contrasting Fuyuko with other women of a similar age – particularly those who have chosen more conventional paths, such as actively pursuing their careers or marriage and motherhood. Interestingly, the more we learn about Hijiri, the more we realise how negatively she is perceived by other women, largely due to her intense competitiveness and tendency to use people in selfish ways. Nevertheless, Kawakami carefully paints Hijiri is a nuanced, shaded manner, highlighting her kindness towards Fuyuko alongside her undeniable flaws. Moreover, Fuyuko also reconnects briefly with an old school friend, Noriko, now stuck in a loveless marriage, her life fully consumed by the needs of her children and a lover on the side.

Kawakami is acutely attuned to sensations – what it feels like to be Fuyuko, to live in her skin – a technique that reminds me of some of Clarice Lispector’s work, e.g. Near to the Wild Heart. The novel is strong on sensory experiences, investing the routine and mundane with a deeper significance through their impact on Fuyuko. Moreover, halfway through the story, a shocking incident from Fuyuko’s adolescence is revealed – an experience that illuminates so much about this young woman and her fear of getting hurt. 

I felt as though now that the heat and the sun had abated, the edges of everything around me had blurred. And while I could still clearly hear the sound of my own heart, it sounded strange to me, as if it wasn’t coming from inside, but from some other place altogether. (p. 122)

One of the most disturbing things about this incident is how relatable it is, how something of this nature could happen to any of us through no fault of our own – another reason why this novel proves to be such a piercing, emotionally involving read. It’s hard not to feel fully invested in Fuyuko’s future at various points in the story, especially as she slides ever closer to what seems like the edge of a precipice with an uncertain outcome…

I loved this subtle, achingly sad portrayal of a solitary young woman tentatively trying to reconnect with the outside world while the constraints of her existence threaten to overwhelm her. Kawakami writes so beautifully about various things in this novel, particularly loneliness and light – two elements that remind me of Yuko Tsushima’s gorgeous novella Territory of Light.

I’ll finish with a passage from the book’s prologue detailing an annual ritual for Fuyuko – a nighttime walk through the Tokyo streets on her birthday, which coincides with Christmas Eve.

As I walk through the night, I remember what Mitsutsuka said to me. “Because at night, only half the world remains.” I count the lights. All the lights of the night. The red light at the intersection, trembling as if wet, even though it isn’t raining. Streetlight after streetlight. Taillights trailing off into the distance. The soft glow from the windows. Phones in the hands of people just arriving home, and people just about to go somewhere. Why is the night so beautiful? Why does it shine the way it does?

All the Lovers in the Night is published by Picador; personal copy.

Woman Running in the Mountains by Yūko Tsushima (tr. Geraldine Harcourt)

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The critically acclaimed Japanese author Yūko Tsushima is fast becoming a favourite of mine. As a single mother, writing at a time when few Japanese women were raising their children alone, Tsushima took great care in exploring the challenges of single motherhood in her work, frequently featuring young women struggling to take control of their lives in the face of societal and familial pressures to conform. It’s a topic that unites her most affecting books – the contemplative Territory of Light (1979) and the equally impressive Woman Running in the Mountains, first published in serialised form in 1980. This striking, beautifully written novel, in which brief eruptions of joy burst through the painful burdens of single motherhood, feels like a near certainty for my end-of-year highlights, delving deep into the central character’s world in a highly compelling way.

Tsushima’s protagonist is Takiko, a twenty-one-year-old unmarried woman living at home with her conservative parents and younger brother, Atsushi. Takiko has fallen pregnant from an emotionless one-night stand with an older married man she met through her office job. They were simply work colleagues who connected briefly, only to separate again once the perfunctory act was complete.

At first, Takiko doesn’t realise that the changes happening to her body are due to pregnancy; and even when the reality of the situation finally becomes apparent, she cannot think about the consequences, allowing nature to take its course with minimal engagement. Moreover, there are no attempts to contact the baby’s father, Hiroshi. Instead, Takiko prefers to have no connection with him going forward.

Once discovered, the pregnancy is a great source of shame to Takiko’s parents, particularly the mother, who urges Takiko to seek an abortion, even though it’s too late for this to be conducted. (As noted in the book, only 0.8% of children born in Japan were effectively classed as illegitimate at this time, attracting a deeply ingrained mark of social stigma that carried through into adulthood.)  

Moreover, Takiko must put up with a tirade of abuse at home, from her mother’s persistent nagging about the disgrace associated with single motherhood and its impact on Takiko’s life to her father’s physical attacks, frequently fuelled by alcohol and rages against his own shortcomings. (An earlier accident has left the father with a disability, pushing the burden of financial support onto Takiko and her mother – a seamstress who works all hours simply to cover the family’s costs.) 

Her mother at once launched into an endless stream of angry questions, demanding to know why hadn’t she gotten an abortion, how had it happened, who was the man, did she want his child because she loved him, was he a married man, did he know, did she plan to bring it up herself, did she think she knew how, was she doing this to get back at her parents, did she have such a grudge against her father, did she realize what this would do to her life, and just what was the big idea? (p. 24)

Nevertheless, Takiko is not ashamed of her situation. In fact, the prospect of motherhood seems entirely natural to her, signalling a determination to forge her own path in life, irrespective of the challenges this will undoubtedly present. 

In essence, the novel follows the first year in the life of Akira, Takiko’s baby boy, opening with Takiko making the arduous journey to the municipal maternity hospital in Tokyo, a trip she is determined to make on her own. We follow Takiko as she goes through labour and gives birth, learns to feed and look after Akira, and observes the other mothers from a safe distance. In truth, she would rather stay in hospital than return to her parents’ home, where baby Akira will almost certainly exacerbate the tensions in her family.

She had given birth to a baby that no one had wanted her to have, a birth to which she alone had consented. Regrets were not permitted. (p. 181)

Tsushima excels at capturing the rhythms, routines and emotions of single parenthood as Takiko must learn to look after her baby largely on her own. We see her searching for a place at a series of day-care centres, virtually all fully booked for months in advance, much to Takiko’s dismay. Finally, a space becomes available at a small private nursery, enabling Takiko to look for work, although her incomings barely cover the childcare costs. We follow her progress through a series of poorly paid, unfulfilling jobs, ill-suited to her childcare commitments and her instinctive interests/skills. Meanwhile, the barrage of verbal abuse continues – much of it from Takiko’s mother as she urges her daughter to give Akira up for adoption, easing the financial and emotional burden on the family before they sink. Tsushima also highlights some of the hypocrisy inherent in this society as Takiko’s mother seems happy to refer to herself as ‘Grandma’ despite having urged her daughter to terminate the pregnancy on multiple occasions. Nevertheless, Takiko will not allow these pressures to derail her. After all, Akira is just like any other baby at heart, whatever conventional society may think.

This was all that Takiko plus Akira amounted to, yet they clearly weren’t regarded as anything so simple. She sensed that people seemed afraid of them. But what on earth was there about her and Akira that could make people wary? (p. 132)

Psychologically, Takiko experiences the whole gamut of emotions, encompassing uncertainty, concern, tension, fear, bewilderment, longing, hope, love (for Akira) and brief bursts of happiness and joy. Some of the most rewarding aspects of this deeply affecting novel stem from her profound appreciation of beauty. At the most unexpected moments, she finds solace and pleasure in images of the natural world, from the shimmering colours of a midsummer morning to the play of light on a tree’s leaves as they flutter in the wind.

Early every afternoon the tree began to shine. A glittering white light danced and scattered as its leaves stirred in the wind. The view bordered by the square window frame gave a deceptive impression of nearness, like a mirage. In the evening the tree would bask in the setting sun, reaching the height of its brilliance. (p. 15)

While the novel is mostly written in a realist style, Tsushima accentuates Takiko’s longing for a world beyond the peripheries of society through brief, dreamlike sequences, tapping into a desire for emergence, liberation and freedom of movement. It’s a freedom Takiko has sensed through listening to stories, observing other people’s lives and drawing on her own imagination. These yearnings are portrayed through dreams of the mountains and the surrounding area, a place that has captured Takiko’s imagination from stories of her mother’s childhood – a landscape rich with lush, rolling fields, glittering white ice and a liquid amethyst sea, swiftly moving as it flows. Moreover, entwined with this desire for liberation is a deep yearning for connection and emotional fulfilment, aspects sorely lacking from Takiko’s life in the early months of motherhood.

The world is below is clearly visible from the mountain slope, stretching away beyond the rustling vine leaves. All too clearly and minutely visible. The world where people live. Countless grains of light glitter as if every surface had been sprinkled with quartz dust. There are houses, roads, adults, children down there. They look like toys, but they aren’t toys at all. A world that appears even more distant than the blue peaks floating on the skyline. But it is this world that she wants more than anything to watch, when she could look away and spare herself this slowly welling sadness. When she needn’t know how alone she is. (p. 247)

There are hints that this fulfilling connection may finally happen when Takiko finds a job at the Misawa Gardens, helping to tend plants supplied to restaurants and similar businesses. There she meets an older married man, Kambayashi, whose bond with his son – a boy with significant learning difficulties – touches her deeply. In a way, Takiko and Kambayashi are kindred spirits – both share a love of plants and the natural world, and both are raising socially disadvantaged children, albeit with different challenges. It would be unfair of me to reveal how this relationship plays out, save to say there are a few slivers of hope for Takiko alongside the heartbreak as this tender friendship deepens and evolves.

So, to summarise, I loved this thoughtful, beautifully observed story, a profound exploration of the challenges of raising a child alone in a deeply conservative society. Alongside motherhood, Tsushima also finds space for some reflections on fathers here – for instance, the shadow of absent fathers (vs the impact of those who are present) is keenly felt. In many ways, it is a novel of contrasts: pain vs joy; isolation vs connection; the burden of single motherhood vs the freedom to express oneself; and bittersweet dreams vs magical, shimmering light. As in her other novels, Tsushima uses imagery and descriptions of light so well here, accentuating the underlying atmosphere and mood. A gorgeous, evocative read for #WITMonth – very highly recommended indeed.

Woman Running in the Mountains is published by NYRB Classics; my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.  

Life Ceremony by Sayaka Murata (tr. Ginny Tapley Takemori)

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Last year I read and thoroughly enjoyed Sayaka Murata’s novella Convenience Store Woman, a wonderfully offbeat story that posed some fascinating questions about society and the relative value we place on different life choices. There’s more of that strangeness here in Life Ceremony, a collection of thirteen short stories, many of which challenge conventional societal norms and longstanding taboos. It’s an excellent collection, raising provocative questions about why certain things are deemed acceptable while others are not.

By exploring our societal constructs, Murata exposes the absurdities and hypocrisies of various conventional beliefs, destabilising our perceptions of what is ‘normal’ vs ‘weird’ or taboo. Many of these stories are set either in the near future or in an alternate reality where societal practices have changed, shifting the boundaries of which behaviours are considered off-limits.

As with most short story collections, some pieces resonate more strongly than others, so my aim is to give you a flavour of the highlights and underlying themes. While the longer pieces are particularly effective, even Murata’s short sketches have something interesting to offer – the germ or an idea or a lasting impression to consider.

In the opening story, a First-Rate Material, we enter a world in which human bones, skin and other body parts are routinely repurposed into useful objects following a person’s death. These recycled items are not only considered acceptable but highly desirable, frequently attracting high price tags due to their quality and beauty. The young lovers in the story have wildly different perceptions of this practice, prompting us to question who is behaving strangely here – the young woman who longs to fill her new home with furniture made from bones, or the young man who baulks at the idea of these furnishings and wedding rings made of teeth?

Murata’s story asks us to question the man’s objections to this form of recycling. Why shouldn’t human bodies be repurposed in this way following death? Surely that’s less wasteful than being cremated, thereby allowing parts of the body to have an extended ‘life’, converting them into items to be admired and enjoyed by others? Taboo-busting ideas as far as our current society is concerned, but not in the world that the author portrays here.

The titular tale, Life Ceremony, takes some of these ideas even further, challenging our perceptions of the nature of human flesh. In the environment depicted here, funerals have been replaced by life ceremonies, where the deceased’s flesh is cooked and made into a meal for their family and friends to feast on – a joyous celebration of life as opposed to the solemn mourning of a death. As an additional flourish, guests are encouraged to find an insemination partner to have sex with in a public place – thereby continuing the circle of life, should the conception prove successful. Attitudes towards sex have changed over time due to a population decline, and procreation is now seen as a form of social justice to support the ongoing survival of the human race.

While the custom of eating human flesh has become deeply ingrained in this society, the narrator – a woman in her mid-thirties – can recall a time in her childhood when such practices were forbidden, highlighting the shifts in attitudes and the boundaries of ‘normality’. There is a sense that humans are becoming more like animals in this rather affecting story – a darkly humorous tale tinged with a dash of poignancy. Another thought-provoking piece designed to challenge our preconceptions and impressions of what feels ‘right’ vs taboo.

Our perceptions of sex are also pertinent to A Clean Marriage, another provocative story that plays with conventional norms. In essence, this piece explores the idea that sex for pleasure and sex for procreation are two completely different concerns, to the point where a person might seek separate partners or ‘processes’ to fulfil these contrasting aims. As with other stories in this collection, there is the germ of a rational concept here which Murata cleverly develops through her slightly skewed scenario. Another excellent tale that derives humour from life’s absurdities (as depicted here).

Food is another recurring theme or motif, sometimes acting as a cultural signifier as in A Magnificent Spread – one of the less controversial pieces in the collection. In this humorous story, a newly-engaged couple host a lunch for their respective families to meet for the first time. Perhaps unsurprisingly, each member of the extended family comes with their own deep-seated preferences for food, ranging from an obsession with ‘Happy Future’ functional health foods to a fondness for insects and grubs foraged from the natural world. In essence, the story illustrates the importance of respecting other people’s cultures and values rather than forcing them to accept our own. Naturally, our attitudes towards different foods are a key part of these cultural codes, as Murata’s highly amusing story neatly demonstrates.

Other stories explore unconventional family units, highlighting the value participants gain from these relationships despite a lack of understanding from other, more ‘conventional’ sectors of society. Two’s Family is an excellent example of this – a beautiful, touching story of two women, Yoshiko and Kikue, who had previously decided to live together for life if they remained unattached by the age of thirty. Now in their seventies, the two women have enjoyed living together in a non-sexual relationship for forty years, raising three daughters conceived through artificial insemination from a sperm bank. While Yoshiko is quite guarded at heart, Kikue is more outgoing, having enjoyed several lovers over the years. But with Kikue now undergoing treatment for cancer, Yoshiko wonders what will become of her should Kikue die. Like a marriage of sorts, life with Kikue is all Yoshiko has ever known. This very affecting story works brilliantly, especially as a contrast to some of the book’s other, more controversial pieces.

Finally, I must mention the penultimate story, Hatchling, because it’s probably my pick of the bunch. Narrated by a Haruka, a young woman planning her wedding, Hatchling explores the benefits and dangers of code-switching – the practice of flexing our personality to fit in with different social groups, depending on the ‘tone’ each group requires. Since junior high, Haruka has become so used to adapting her behaviour that she no longer knows who she really is. Maybe she doesn’t even have a genuinepersonality of her own, only a series of five or six ‘characters’ dictated by each particular situation or environment. For instance, she is the straight-A student ‘Prez’ with her junior high classmates, the goofball ‘Peabrain’ for her high school friends and the girly ‘Princess’ with her film club at Uni. The real problem comes when Haruki contemplates her forthcoming wedding. Which ‘character’ should she adopt there, given the mix of friends attending? And perhaps more importantly, which personality would her fiancé prefer? Maybe this depends on the character he will be playing on the day, and how will she know in advance?

This is an excellent piece, full of cleverly-constructed scenes that Murata plays out in a highly amusing manner. In short, the story highlights the dangers of adopting a carefully-curated persona in front of others, especially if we lose sight of our inherent values and behaviours.

So, in summary, a truly excellent collection of stories, many of which challenge conventional societal norms and longstanding taboos. What Murata does so well here is to skew our world just enough to destabilise our preconceived notions of the boundaries of acceptability. She challenges us to look at the world afresh by exploring the validity of an alternate, less constrained view.

Life Ceremony is published by Granta Books; my thanks to the publishers and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing an early proof copy.

The Pachinko Parlour by Elisa Shua Dusapin (tr. Aneesa Abbas Higgins)

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A couple of years ago, I read and loved Winter in Sokcho, a beautiful, dreamlike novella that touched on themes of detachment, fleeting connections and the pressure to conform to societal norms. Set against the backdrop of a rundown guest house in Sokcho, the book centred on an intriguing relationship between a young French-Korean woman and a Frenchman staying at the hotel. Now Elisa Shua Dusapin is back with her second book, The Pachinko Parlour, another wonderfully enigmatic novella that shares many qualities with its predecessor.

As in her previous work, Dusapin draws on her French-Korean heritage for Pachinko, crafting an elegantly expressed story of family, displacement, fractured identity and the search for belonging. Here we see people caught in the hinterland between different countries, complete with their respective cultures and preferred languages. It’s a novel that exists in the liminal spaces between states, the borders or crossover points from one community to the next and from one family unit to another.

At first sight, the story being conveyed here seems relatively straightforward – a young woman travels to Japan to take her Korean grandparents on a trip to their homeland, a place they haven’t seen in fifty years. Dig a little deeper, however, and the narrative soon reveals itself to be wonderfully slippery – cool and clear on the surface yet harbouring fascinating layers of depth, a combination that gives the book a haunting or spectral quality, cutting deep into the soul. 

The novella is narrated by Claire, a young woman on the cusp of turning thirty, brought up in Switzerland, where she now lives with her boyfriend, Mathieu. It is summer, and Claire has travelled to Japan to stay with her Korean grandparents in the Nippori area of the city, home to the sizeable Zainichi community of exiled Koreans. But despite having lived in Japan for the past fifty years, Claire’s grandparents have not fully integrated into the Japanese community and culture, almost certainly because their move was prompted by the Korean Civil War in the early 1950s. A displacement process that forced Koreans to choose between the North and the South of the country, should they wish to keep their Korean identity while living in Japan.

The transition proved particularly challenging for Claire’s grandmother, who resisted assimilation into her adopted country by not speaking Japanese. Now in her nineties, she is showing signs of dementia, regressing into childhood as she plays with her dolls. Meanwhile, Claire’s grandfather must work till he drops, managing the faded Pachinko parlour (a legal, low-stakes gambling emporium) opposite the couple’s house. Aside from the Pachinko parlour – ironically named Shiny as it is anything but – the grandparents have virtually no social contact with other people, existing largely within their own limited, claustrophobic world.

With the proposed trip to Korea merely weeks away, Claire is struggling with the situation in Japan. Her grandparents are showing little enthusiasm for the trip, avoiding any discussions or preparations for the journey, despite their longstanding ties to the country. Communication seems to be a significant barrier for the trio, particularly as Claire is more fluent in Japanese than Korean, having studied the former at a Swiss university. Consequently, she spends much of her time lying on the ground floor in the suffocating heat, playing games on her phone or looking up Korea on the net. The atmosphere in the house is dizzying and oppressive as the noise from the nearby Pachinko parlours proves impossible to shut out…

The only respite for Claire is the time she spends with Mieko, a ten-year-old girl who lives with her mother – the rather cold and judgmental Mrs Ogawa – in an abandoned hotel. Mrs Ogawa – a French literature tutor by profession – has employed Claire to teach Mieko French during the school holidays, a task the mother shows little interest in helping with herself.

As the days slip by, a tentative friendship develops between Claire and Mieko – a slightly awkward yet touching bond born out of a shared sense of loneliness and loss. (Of significance here is Mieko’s father – no longer on the scene, having abandoned his family several years before.) The dialogue between this unlikely duo is beautifully expressed, perfectly capturing the awkwardness of the age gap between Claire and Mieko. Moreover, the young girl’s curiosity is also a factor, indicating a growing awareness of the mysteries of the adult world.  

Dusapin’s style is wonderfully pared back and minimalist, almost like a prose poem at times, leaving plenty of space for the reader to fill the gaps. Thematically and stylistically, the book is somewhat reminiscent of Jessica Au’s Cold Enough for Snow, another haunting exploration of isolation and loss through a distanced family relationship. And yet, there is something unsettling here as well, echoing the signs of tension that run through Winter in Sokcho. In Pachinko, we find passing mentions of disturbing elements, from dying species and the presence of toxins in the earth to the shocking death of one of Mieko’s classmates. The story is punctuated with unnerving motifs, hinting at a troubled world where humanity must learn to coexist – both with itself and with the natural environment.

In Claire’s grandparents, we see people buffeted by history and events outside their control, wounded by the longstanding pain of Korean-Japanese history and the conflict of Civil War. Meanwhile, Claire is grappling with questions of identity and belonging herself, having grown up in Switzerland following her mother’s flight from the Zainichi community in Japan, largely for the opportunities that Europe could provide. As such, Claire too is caught between cultures, struggling to communicate across the societal and linguistic divides, prompting a sense of separation from her elderly grandparents. If anything, it is Mathieu – Claire’s absent boyfriend, busily working on his thesis in Switzerland – who seems to have the stronger relationship with the elderly couple, having bonded with them relatively easily during a previous trip.

As the novella draws to a close, there is a gradual increase in tension as the family’s departure draws near. Interestingly, just as in Sokcho, Dusapin ends Pachinko on an enigmatic note, prompting the reader to question the true meaning of the book. Whose journey are we witnessing here? Is it Claire’s grandparents’ pilgrimage – possibly the last chance to return to their homeland before illness or death intervenes – or is it Claire’s, a quest for attachment and belonging in a fractured, multicultural world?

I’ll leave you to figure that out for yourself – ideally by reading the book, which I highly recommend. This is a beautifully judged novella, a layered exploration of displacement, belonging and unspoken tragedies from times past. A beguiling read for #WITMonth and beyond.

The Pachinko Parlour will be published by Daunt Books on 18th August. My thanks to the publisher and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a proof copy.