Book Girl and the Scribe Who Faced God, Part 1 Read online

  “The author is still immature and this work contains a spark we see only in adolescence; it is written with a forthright sensitivity and there’s good reason to read it. However, there is some question as to whether this author will be capable of producing another piece.”

  The room brightened and I gasped.

  There was no longer anyone onstage.

  I instantly recalled the situation I was in, and the terror I had forgotten swelled up in me with a shudder.

  “Hey, that kid’s wearing a uniform. I wonder who he is?”

  The words came to my ears and a chill went up my spine.

  I had to get out of here, quick.

  I ducked my head and moved through the waves of people desperately, my feet tangling over each other.

  I felt like people all over the room were looking at me, and my brain grew hotter and my vision blurred.

  Just a little farther, only a little bit more, and I could go out to the lobby.

  I panicked and tried to force my way through, which made me collide with the man in front of me.

  “I-I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, excuse me. Hey—are you in high school?”

  His eyes went wide.

  “That’s amazing. Are you working at your age? Are you an author, too? I’m writing novels.”

  The man brought out a business card. Other people started to gather around us in interest.

  “Do you know this kid, Horibe?”

  “I was wondering about him, too. You should introduce us.”

  “Hey, kid, what’s wrong? Why so quiet? Are you nervous?”

  Surrounded by people I didn’t know, having them come at me one after another, my breathing grew ragged. Not knowing what to do, I shouted, “I’m sorry, please let me through! I’m in a hurry,” my voice choked with tears, and I forced my way through the ring of people.

  No longer caring whether I hit anyone, I ran in a daze and finally reached the door. I moved to open the door when someone behind me grabbed my arm.

  My heart shrank, and just as I was about to shout out, someone called my name.

  “Inoue, wait!”

  The person looking down at me, out of breath and dressed in a suit, was Mr. Sasaki.

  “I got a message from Ryuto. I was surprised to hear you would be at the party. I’m glad I found you so soon.”

  In my terror, Mr. Sasaki led me out of the ballroom and took me to the hotel’s lounge.

  There was space between our seats and others so no one would hear our conversation. The soft lighting and the potted plant next to the couch seemed to hide us, which reassured me, and my tense emotions started to unwind.

  “I brought you this.”

  He set my cell phone and the ticket for my coat on the table.

  I suspected that in the end I had behaved exactly as Ryuto had planned, and I felt even more drained. At the same time, I felt a bottomless terror of Ryuto for being able to maneuver the woman he knew and even Mr. Sasaki and to draw me to the party. I felt a chill.

  “Do you think Ryuto did something this convoluted just so I would run into you, Mr. Sasaki?”

  Mr. Sasaki’s face clouded over.

  “Now, that I don’t know. But don’t you think Ryuto wants you to write another novel, too?”

  I hung my head.

  Did Ryuto want to make me write because that was what Tohko wanted?

  Because that was what Ryuto’s “special person” wanted?

  Something deep in my heart ached, as if something were scraping at it.

  “… You knew Ryuto and Tohko, didn’t you, Mr. Sasaki?”

  Mr. Sasaki’s face wrinkled again, troubled.

  “Tohko told me that I need to write, too. She knew that I’d seen you.”

  My voice was a hoarse whisper as I squeezed my phone.

  Mr. Sasaki gazed at me with a pained, remorseful look.

  “Actually, the reason I went to see you is because Tohko contacted me. Tohko told me she thought you’d be able to write a new novel now.”

  All that did was tighten my chest even more.

  So Tohko really had known that I was Miu Inoue from the very beginning. She’d gotten close to me in order to make me write another book.

  “I won’t write anything.”

  Mr. Sasaki sighed.

  “I told Tohko that, too. I told her you wouldn’t write. I think she took it very badly.”

  Sweat coated my hand as it squeezed my cell phone. My throat hurt and a pungent smell filled the back of my nose. Without lifting my head, I asked, “How do you know Tohko and Ryuto? Ryuto’s mother is that author, Kanako Sakurai, right? Is that the link?”

  “There is that. But Tohko’s father was a colleague of mine.”

  “Tohko’s… father?”

  “That’s right—Fumiharu Amano, an excellent editor.”

  Tohko’s father had been an editor!

  When I looked up, Mr. Sasaki’s eyes were touched by a nostalgic smile.

  “I don’t know any editors who love books, who love authors, or who extract their potential as much as he did. The books he made were filled with the love of a creator even in the details of their binding. There were a lot of authors who teamed up with Amano and became best sellers. That was the sort of thing that got him an overblown reputation as an editor of legend.”

  There was fondness in Mr. Sasaki’s tone. His eyes had been clouding over, but they began to sparkle visibly. I watched the transformation with an odd feeling.

  Mr. Sasaki went on talking effusively.

  How all the authors had wanted to work with Amano.

  How among them there had been authors with problems, who were selfish and constantly missed deadlines, but that Amano had dealt with them skillfully.

  He had fearlessly told people what they needed to hear, had expended all his intelligence and all his power when they needed help, and had built relationships of trust with authors. He had been young, easygoing, and kind with a polite demeanor, but in his job he’d been more passionate than anyone.

  Mr. Sasaki sounded as proud as if he were speaking of himself—

  “Before a manuscript was finished, he would stay cooped up at the office so long you wondered when he slept, and yet no matter how tired he was, he never got irritable or dismissive of other people.

  “In fact, when everyone was on edge, he would tell them, ‘It’s all right; we’ll get through this; keep at it,’ and he would give them a low-key smile. With a calm face that said he didn’t even know he was doing it!

  “Then, when the final proofing was done, he would drop onto a couch in the office all of a sudden and sleep right on through to the next day.

  “His wife would often bring little Tohko or Ryuto along to visit him with a change of clothes or other provisions. I can still remember how, when he was passed out on the sofa the morning after final proofing, Tohko would shake him and shout at him in the most adorable voice, ‘Daddy, wake up. Let’s go home.’ Tohko started wearing her hair in braids around that time. She really was so cute.”

  It was obvious that Mr. Sasaki and Tohko’s father shared a lot of good memories and they were welling up in his heart in an unstoppable torrent.

  I listened to him as if he were speaking of a distant land, without any of it feeling real.

  “Her mother, Yui, was ethereal and cute, too. She was originally in a lower grade at the same college as Amano, and she submitted a novel to him. She was a book girl and she dreamed of being an author. Although at some point, Amano seized his opportunity and made her his personal author.”

  “When my dad proposed to my mom, he said, ‘I want you to be my author. Just mine.’ ”

  The sweet yearning that had come into her clear eyes.

  Tohko with a contented smile like a violet.

  But the more I heard of Mr. Sasaki’s story, the more I felt a pang, as if a thing that had been nearby until now was drawing away.

  I didn’t know anything about Tohko.

  I wanted to,
but I didn’t.

  Not about her family.

  Not about her childhood.

  Nothing…

  “Tohko resembles Yui in a lot of ways. The way she smiles is exactly like her. And the way she speaks and acts makes it seem that Yui is right there with you.

  “That’s probably why Amano loved Tohko so much. He was focused so entirely on his job before she was born that people joked that he got his mail at work, and yet he would practically run home when evening came and help Yui out. That was the only time his work got put on hold. It was like he couldn’t stand to be away from Yui, he was so worried about her. He was fidgety even when he was at work, and I think everyone used to tease him.”

  “… How is Tohko’s family now?” I asked in a low voice. Mr. Sasaki shut his mouth abruptly and lowered his eyes sadly.

  “They both passed away when Tohko was about eight years old. They were in a car and… there was an accident.”

  I gasped slightly.

  Why was Tohko living at Ryuto’s house?

  I had always wondered.

  And also why Tohko’s voice was very warm when she talked about her parents and yet occasionally it was mixed with some melancholy—

  Tohko’s parents had died a long time ago!

  Mr. Sasaki didn’t go into any more detail than that. He closed his mouth, clasped his hands together on the table, bowed his head slightly, and sat in pained silence.

  He, too, had lost an irreplaceable friend in that accident.

  Once the heavy mood had drawn out for a bit, Mr. Sasaki sluggishly lifted his face.

  Then he gazed at me, and in a voice filled with gravity, as if he needed to tell me this at least, he said, “Tohko was your earliest fan, Inoue.

  “I doubt there was anybody who read your book who was waiting for Miu Inoue’s next novel as much as Tohko was. When I was still your agent, Tohko often nagged me about when the next book would be. Two years ago when I told her that Miu Inoue might never write again, Tohko looked like she was going to cry.”

  I couldn’t say anything.

  Each time I remembered how sad she had looked or how her voice had caught, it tore at my chest and my throat squeezed tight. My arm grew achingly hot where Tohko had grabbed it—

  The desire to see Tohko.

  Colliding in my heart with the thought that I couldn’t see her…

  “Club time, Konoha!”

  Tohko pulling my hand and leading me out of the room despite my protests. I wrote snacks for Tohko every day in the soft light of the western sun.

  Tohko had always been excited when I handed over the paper.

  A gentle smile.

  A cheerful voice.

  I wanted to hear her voice, but it was growing distant. Her shape and her eyes were growing hazy, too.

  “Are you sure you don’t feel like writing another book?”

  I couldn’t manage a response to Mr. Sasaki’s question as he gazed at me. My lips stayed firmly shut.

  Mr. Sasaki told me he would send me home in a taxi, so he asked me to wait in the lobby.

  “I’ll take the train home.”

  “So much has happened today, you must be exhausted. Let me get you a cab.”

  Mr. Sasaki was right; even though I hadn’t exercised or anything, my limbs felt incredibly heavy and my temples ached. I thought I might get sick if I had to deal with the crowds on the train, so I accepted his offer.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be right back, so have a seat on the sofa while you wait.”

  With that, he went back to his colleagues.

  Mr. Sasaki must have been busy as a host today, too. I felt awful for monopolizing him despite that.

  I went up the escalator to the first floor, then handed in the ticket for my coat and schoolbag at the front desk. I put my coat on, then sat down on a sofa in the lobby, holding my bag in my arms. Sitting down made my body feel like it had grown even heavier.

  It was dinnertime and I still wasn’t home, so I was sure my mother was worried.

  Kotobuki, too…

  Just as I was opening my cell phone, I could see a slender woman in a vivid royal-blue dress walking toward me.

  She made my heart pound hard. Keeping my grip on my bag, I gulped.

  Just like when she’d stood at the microphone, the woman gave off a frigid, regal air that seemed to reject all else.

  I stared at her, my entire body tense, my eyes never straying.

  She picked up an expensive-looking fur coat at the front desk and slipped it on in an elegant motion, then started moving toward the revolving doors at the main entrance.

  My throat was bone-dry. I couldn’t even blink, and my eyes hurt.

  Just then, she turned around.

  Her eyes, empty of emotion, colder than absolute zero, met mine.

  In that instant, I felt as if her look had become a crystal arrow that pierced my heart.

  We stared at each other, standing at a distance.

  Unable to breathe, unable to look away, I wonder how long we stayed like that.

  Breaking under the tension, I stood up and crept over to her, utterly her inferior.

  “You’re Kanako Sakurai, right? Um, my name is Konoha Inoue. I go to Seijoh Academy. I’m in a club with Tohko. We met once outside your house.”

  It was impossible to believe that this woman was someone’s mother.

  Her limbs, the line of her neck, her hips, they were all surprisingly slender and her skin was white and smooth as wax. I wondered how old she was. Since she was Ryuto’s mother, it wasn’t out of the question for her to be in her late thirties or early forties, but she looked as if she had transcended mere age.

  There was no sense whatsoever of warmth or vivacity in her glossy, chestnut-brown hair, which was styled in a short cut, or in the sharp line of her nose, or in the red blush of her lips; she was incredibly cold, her features graceful, and almost oppressively beautiful.

  She looked at my face in silence.

  “I’m sorry for being there unannounced last time. And, um… I had no idea Ryuto’s mother was the author Kanako Sakurai.”

  “Are you writing something at the moment?”

  The sudden question in her clear, cold voice left me with nothing to say.

  Without any expression on her face, she went on.

  “You’re Miu Inoue, aren’t you?”

  My cheeks burned like fire.

  She knew who I was!

  When I thought about it, though, I realized that if Tohko and Ryuto both knew, there was no way Kanako didn’t. Plus she’d been a judge, and my real name and address and a brief history had been written on my submission.

  “… I stopped writing novels. I’m an ordinary high school student now,” I murmured as I tried desperately to stop my voice from shaking. The searing fire in my chest was humiliation and anger. Was she going to tell me to write like Tohko and Ryuto had?

  But Kanako Sakurai, the author, pronounced in a cold, disinterested voice, “It’s better that way. You could never be an author.”

  Blood rushed into my head.

  “There is some question as to whether this author will be capable of producing another piece.”

  My whole body was assaulted by a burning shame. While I struggled to take a breath, her words went on indifferently, as if she were looking down from heaven.

  “I know someone who writes novels very similar to yours. Their spirit was weak. They never could have been an author.”

  Standing stiffly, I couldn’t say anything in response.

  I was utterly outmatched.

  If she were a magnificent moon shining in the heavens, I was a cowardly cricket hiding in the shadows of the grass.

  “Inoue.”

  Mr. Sasaki ran up to us, looking frantic.

  Kanako gave Mr. Sasaki a slight nod, then turned her back on me without a word. With an alluring rustle of the hem of her royal-blue dress, she disappeared through the revolving door.

  “Did Kanako say a
nything to you, Inoue?” Mr. Sasaki asked me worriedly as I quailed, looking miserable.

  “… She said… I could never be an author.”

  “I believe being an author is a lonely line of work that asks you to pass through a narrow gate quite alone.”

  Her majestic voice had shot through me, and it resurfaced in my mind along with the words she had just hurled at me. I was filled with bitter thoughts.

  Mr. Sasaki frowned.

  “Kanako is extraordinarily exacting about the work she does and she can be easily misunderstood. So, uh… I hope you won’t let her get under your skin.”

  “… I’m not.”

  As soon as I’d said it, my brain burned. He was right; there was no reason to worry about it. Because I wasn’t going to be an author.

  So then why had it shocked me this badly? Why did I ache like my chest had been hollowed out?

  Mr. Sasaki rested a hand on my shoulder consolingly.

  “I’m sorry I took so long. Let’s go.”

  “Amano debuted Kanako, you know. She’d been best friends with Tohko’s mother, Yui, ever since they were in middle school.”

  Mr. Sasaki spoke sporadically in the taxi.

  “Have you ever read one of her books, Inoue?”

  “… No.”

  “If you read one all the way through, you’ll feel a shock, as if the world you’ve lived in your whole life has been turned on end. Her pen drags out the taboos and the fear lying beneath the surface of a peaceful, everyday life without reservation and depicts them almost clinically. There are people who criticize her work as confessional novels typical of a female author and say that they simply explore her lived experiences, but they’re wrong. Kanako Sakurai is a true author.”

  Within his calm tone was an unshakable admiration.

  The things Kanako had told me still ached deep in my chest.

  So that was what her novels were like…

  Unhesitating, clinical.

  The exact opposite of the way I felt lost about everything—

  “Since her descriptions are so realistic, there was a big stir that suggested Arisa, the protagonist of her book The Immoral Passage, was Kanako herself, but that was just something made up by the weeklies…”