Kyūsuke’s Story
Ni’imi Nankichi
Kyūsuke had received a reward for his unparalleled excellence in schoolwork and conduct from fourth to fifth grade.
In the beginning, Kyūsuke’s father, who worked as a bill collector for the electric company, was very keen that Kyūsuke maintain his high academic status, so he made a rule that Kyūsuke had to study for an hour every day right after school.
Kyūsuke was not overjoyed at this. After his hour was up, he would often go outside to find none of his friends playing. He would have to go and seek them out.
One crisp, clear autumn afternoon, Kyūsuke watched as the hands on the grandfather clock crawled to three-thirty. “Finally!” he said. He slammed his arithmetic books shut and stood up on the desk.
It was radiant out when he stepped outside. But none of his friends were there! He didn’t hear a single voice. Kyūsuke turned his head towards the woods surrounding the shrine and listened closely.
The forest was three blocks away from Kyūsuke’s house, but he could still tell just by listening whether or not his friends were playing there. But today the trees remained stubbornly silent. Next, Kyūsuke turned in the opposite direction, towards the night school. It, likewise, was about three blocks away, and it, too, was quiet.
Kyūsuke would just have to make the rounds and check all the places where the town’s children were likely to gather. He had no idea how many times he had done this, but what he did know was that he hated it.
Maybe he’d go to the warehouse, Kyūsuke thought. They’d play catch there sometimes. But when he arrived there was nobody else there.
Well, of course. There were too many beans strung up to dry for anyone to play there.
Next Kyūsuke made his way to the temple on the north side of town. But he wasn’t moving with any great enthusiasm. That was the stomping grounds of another group of kids from school. Even still, he was loath to play by himself on a day as nice as this one. But all he found there were half a dozen large tampala plants stretching up towards the autumn sun. There wasn’t even a stray puppy hanging around the temple bell.
They couldn’t be at the doctor’s house, could they? Kyūsuke thought. He decided to drop by Tokuichi’s house. It was situated in between fields of soybeans, their leaves dyed yellow. As he walked past piles of stacked hay, Kyūsuke ran into Heitarō.
Heitarō had acquired the nickname “Hei-check-it-out!” from his friends, and it was a well-deserved name. He would say that he’d caught an eel this big, stretching his arms out as far as they would reach, but then you’d see a tiny little wriggler way deep down in a black pot next to the well. And he was totally tone-deaf—he could barely get through the national anthem. But he didn’t care about that: when the whole class sang in unison, they would have to stop whenever Heitarō joined in because he would drive them all off-key. He wasn’t malicious, just bad at singing. Nobody disliked him. Sometimes he would press one nostril closed and blow out the other to make a honking sound. And whenever he laughed he was liable to collapse on the ground in giggles, no matter whether he was inside or outside.
Using his fingers, Heitarō turned up the corners of his mouth into a frown.
“Where’d everybody go?” Kyūsuke asked.
“Beats me,” Heitarō replied with a face that said he couldn’t have cared less. To Kyūsuke, it looked like Heitarō’s face had been meticulously carved out of wood with a chisel.
“Where’s Tokuichi at?”
“He ain’t here.” A red dragonfly buzzed to a stop on the grass behind Heitarō. Its wings sparkled in the sun.
“Wanna go look for him?” Kyūsuke asked, a little irritated.
“Nope.”
“C’mon!” Kyūsuke urged.
“Nah, him and his mom were headed up towards Handa last I heard.” As Heitarō spoke, he caught a whiff of something sweet coming from the hay and crouched down as he approached it.
Kyūsuke was disappointed that there was nobody to play with at the doctor’s house, either. But as he observed Heitarō’s antics, he reasoned that playing with him would be fun enough. There was a lot of fun to be had around the hay, whether it was still drying in the field or being baled. So Kyūsuke went along with Heitarō, and they took turns hurling themselves against the hay, which accepted their blows lovingly. After one such assault, a grasshopper leaped over their heads with a buzzing sound, heading towards the soybeans.
Kyūsuke, his head and ears all covered in hay, reached out to grab it but missed. The mountain of hay had been basking in the sun all afternoon, and when he laid on it, the warmth reminded Kyūsuke of being held by his mother as a child.
“Wanna wrestle?” Kyūsuke asked.
“No way! After we wrestled yesterday, I got yelled at,” Heitarō replied. He wiggled over onto his back, looked up at the sky.
“Might as well go home then.”
“Nah, this is cool.” As soon as Heitarō finished talking, he held one nostril shut and blew out the other.
For a while Kyūsuke said nothing, but he was starting to get bored. So with nothing else to do, he rolled over to where Heitarō was lying, and tried to work a blade of grass into his ear.
Heitarō was a braggart and fancied himself a comedian. He could dish it out, but he couldn’t take it. “Cut it out!”
Kyūsuke was trying to rile Heitarō up, get him to come after him. “There’s too much wax in your ears! I’m just trying to clean ‘em out a little!” He started to tickle Heitarō’s ear with the grass.
Heitarō was angry, but he was so ticklish that he suddenly burst out in laughter. Then he tackled Kyūsuke.
The two of them started tussling in the grass like kittens. The fortunes of the battle kept changing, and each of them was covered in hay.
Kyūsuke, after a while, started to lose it. He had only meant it as a joke, and he had thought that Heitarō felt the same way. But now he had his doubts. Heitarō certainly seemed to be taking it seriously. The force with which he was shoved off of Heitarō certainly seemed to indicate that this was more than horsing around. Heitarō put him in a lock, and if they were just playing around, his arms wouldn’t be shaking so much.
If Heitarō was for real, then Kyūsuke had better be, too. He called upon all the strength afforded to him, but then another doubt crossed his mind. Heitarō, knowing that they were just kidding, had gone totally mad. But if that were the case, then why, when Kyūsuke had accidentally gotten his hand in Heitarō’s armpit, was his foe clearly holding in laughter?
If Heitarō was just kidding, it would be unmanly of Kyūsuke to fight for real. But maybe Heitarō thought the same thing.
These overlapping thoughts vanished as soon as they appeared, and the two boys went at it again.
Kyūsuke’s face was pressed up against the hay. He tried to gather up more hay as to soften his landing, but there was nothing to cushion his fall. His head impacted on the ground and a piercing sound rang through his head as hot tears splashed down his cheeks.
The two boys’ arms and legs were entwined in a tangle so confusing that Kyūsuke could not tell whose were whose. He tried to pin his opponent’s leg but ended up pinning his own.
Their duel persisted into the evening. Their belts were off, their clothing disheveled, and the both of them were drenched in sweat.
After who knows how many rounds, Kyūsuke at last got on top of Heitarō and pinned him. This time Heitarō did not resist.
Kyūsuke suddenly felt a wave of loneliness come over him. It was the loneliness he always felt after getting so worked up. Enough is enough, he thought. But he was all too aware that if Heitarō stood up with a big frown on his face it would be more than Kyūsuke could take. Oddly enough, Kyūsuke hadn’t seen Heitarō’s face once during their duel. And even now, Heitarō’s face was pressed down into Kyūsuke’s chest.
Heitarō was totally motionless. He breathed a quick breath of air into Kyūsuke’s face. Just what was he planning?
Kyūsuke loosened his grip a little. But his opponent wasn’t falling for it. Kyūsuke let go completely, but still Heitarō didn’t move. Kyūsuke stood up suddenly. Heitarō then rose laboriously to his feet.
Heitarō stood silent before Kyūsuke. He just stared out at the horizon. It was a stare full of unspeakable loneliness.
Kyūsuke was in shock. The boy standing before him was not Heitarō, but an unknown soul with a face full of sadness.
I spent half the day slugging it out with him, Kyūsuke thought. I was sure it was Heitarō.
Kyūsuke felt dumbfounded, like he had fallen into a parallel world.
So who is he? This kid I spent half the day fighting with?
Maybe he was Heitarō after all? He had to be. Once he came to this realization, relief flooded over Kyūsuke.
It was now dark out. Kyūsuke brushed the hay from his clothes and tied his belt. Then, with a feeling of embarrassment, Kyūsuke left. It wasn’t the most cultured he had ever been.
But ever since then, Kyūsuke had come to a realization. Sometimes people, even people he knew really well, could seem like complete strangers. And it was impossible to know if the real person is the one he knew really well, or the complete stranger. And with that, Kyūsuke came to know a new kind of sadness.