← Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts
Adios, Sayonara, Goodbye!
00:57:16
Host Meg Wolitzer presents three stories by contemporary Japanese writers that were featured during a live program created in collaboration with the Japan Society. Each touches on the idea of letting go. In “Hawaii,” Aoko Matsuda imagines a afterlife for garments. It’s read by Maria Dizzia. In “Sunrise,” by Erika Kobayashi, a woman’s life parallels the world of nuclear power. The reader is Rita Wolf. And Hugh Dancy meets a mermaid in Hiromi Kawakami’s “I Won’t Let You Go.”
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- [00:00]
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- [01:03]
Meg Wolitzer
If you've ever loved a mermaid, you know how it goes. There's enchantment, sure, but your bathtub is never your own and the mackerel bills are sky high. I'm Meg Wolitzer, and this week on Selected Shorts, Infatuation and Fish Tales with reader Hugh Dancy. Stay with us. You're listening to Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. I want you to entertain a thought experiment. Just promise me you won't run away screaming. Deal. Okay, here it is. Imagine moving. No, not just walking to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, but really moving. You know, excavating your possessions from every cupboard, closet and drawer. Sorting them, wrapping them, packing them into boxes, and you still there. I won't push it any further, but just the thought is a little terrifying, isn't it? When you change addresses, you really learn just how much stuff you're holding onto. Even if you're not a pack rat, it adds up. One dusty exercise bike, two mountains of fancy dishes, and why do you have three corkscrews? My family and I moved into our current place 10 years ago. The only bonus I can think of about moving is that once everything is in those boxes, you do get that new haircut or having just had your teeth cleaned at the dentist feeling. However, the feeling only lasts until the moving truck shows up at your new home. And then you start to unpack and chaos once again ensues. You can feel it, right? Being in bubble wrap up to your knees, standing in darkness because you have no idea which box contains your lamp. Okay, breathe easy. You don't really have to move, I hope, But I want us to think about the next hour of Selected Shorts. As a kind of emotional decluttering, these stories might nudge us toward those things we're holding onto, to consider the value of those things and what it might take to let them go. The first piece is about the secret life of old clothes. The second takes on the weight of history and nuclear power, and the third an infatuation with a magical creature of the deep. Our authors today are all contemporary Japanese writers in translation. The reason? The stories were all recorded at our first ever live collaboration with the Japan Society here in New York City. It was a great night, featuring several Selected Shorts regulars. Our first story is by Aoko Matsuda. She's a writer and translator whose titles include the Girl who Is Getting Married and and where the Wild Ladies. A retelling of Japanese folktales, this whimsical tale will be read by Maria Dizia. She has appeared on Broadway, and her series credits include Orange Is the New Black and the recent Agatha All Along. Now Maria Dizia performs Hawaii By Aoko Matsuda Translated by Polly Barton.
- [04:18]
Maria Dizia
Hawaii the sweater that hadn't been worn for three years was sipping a glass of tropical fruit juice by the poolside. The glass was so large that in order to lift it, the sweater had to cradle it with both arms where the wool had begun to pill. In addition to a straw, the drink had some kind of exotic flower and a brightly colored cocktail umbrella poking up from the rim, so even just looking at it encouraged a hol spirit. Every now and again, though, the sweater would mistake one of these other things for the straw and come close to sucking on it. When the sweater had first arrived here, it was so enchanted by the little cocktail umbrellas that it had rescued each and every one and carried them back to its hotel room. But inevitably enough, that phase had passed. From its suite on the top floor of the luxury hotel, the sweater that hadn't been worn for three years could look out over the great expans of emerald green sea. It was there that every morning, stretched out on the crisp white sheets of the enormous bed and gazing up at the sky through the window, the sweater ate its room service breakfast, eggs Benedict, yolks oozing out onto the gleaming white plate, washed down with freshly squeezed orange juice and a cafe au lait to finish, the room was kept at exactly the right temperature, making it a most pleasant place to while away the time in the pool. The floral print dress, bought on sale but never worn, and the white shirt, owned and Quintuplicate, were floating together on a giant inflatable killer whale chatting animatedly as they trailed their sleeves in the glinting water in the lazy river. A little way off, the long patchwork shirt that no longer fit its owner's lifestyle was lying atop a float. It had mentioned a little while back how it had wanted to brush up on its swimming. No sooner had the sweater that hadn't been worn for three years drained the last of its tropical fruit juice with a loud slurp than a fresh one was brought over on a tray boasting a different colored exotic flower and cocktail umbrella than before. Wasting no time, the sweater that hadn't been worn for three years picked up the new drink and took a sip. It was almost too delicious to be real. How many different kinds of tropical fruit juice did they have in this place? Since its arrival, the sweater had drunk at least one each day, but had never been served the same kind of juice twice. Ah, this place is utter paradise, the sweater that hadn't been worn for three years said with a contented sigh. It was speaking the truth. The place really was paradise. What kind of paradise would you prefer? The sweater that hadn't been worn for three years remembered how stumped it had felt when the angel first posed the question. It had never given the matter a thought. The handbag, whose design was now so outdated, and the CD that you could always just buy again in the unlikely event you ever felt like listening to it, looked equally at a loss for words. The three of them shot worried glances at one another. Perhaps this was a common reaction, for the angels seemed to immediately grasp their bewilderment and set about explaining the decision facing them in a voice as light and airy as meringue. You can choose whatever kind of paradise you like. No need to feel shy about just speaking up and telling us exactly the kind of place you'd like to spend your time. Of course, if you get a bit tired of a particular heaven, you're free to switch at any point. Some even choose to spend their time in a different paradise every day. The choice is entirely yours. Our priority is for you to feel safe and happy after undergoing such cruel treatment. We have a catalog here showcasing the options for your reference. The angel opened up the thick catalog that had materialized out of the blue right in front of them. Sure enough, the range of paradises available was truly extraordinary. There was a skiing paradise that was all slopes and snowy mountains and a paradise set in the middle of the jungle. There was a paradise for those who loved picnicking amid the cherry blossom, a paradise modeled on an amusement park and paradises with themes like around the world in 80 days and Lord of the Rings, and those who preferred a more classical model, complete with winged cherubs holding bows and arrows and frolicking atop marshmallow clouds. That option was also up for grabs. You'd be surprised how many end up going for this one in the end, said the angel with blonde ringlets, giving them an earnest look. I'll go for this, said the cd. You could always just buy again in the unlikely event you ever felt like listening to it. Pointing with an indifferent air at the northern lights, paradise on the page opened before them. The sweater that hadn't been worn for three years found itself wondering whether the CD wouldn't find it a little tiresome, given the similarities between the aurora borealis in the picture and the CD's own reflective surface. Of course, it wasn't really any of its business to be worrying about such things, but that didn't stop the sweater that hadn't been worn in three years from feeling a pang of disappointment on the CD's behalf. I'll take this one, piped up the handbag, whose design was now so outdated, pointing at a Disneyland themed paradise that was permanently in Halloween party mode. Oh yes, that comes particularly highly recommended, smiled the angel before turning her gaze on the sweater that hadn't been worn for three years. And before the sweater knew what was what, it found itself uttering the word Hawaii. Hawaii. The place that the girl who hadn't worn the sweater for three years had always yearned to visit. Her number one dream destination. Back when the girl still wore the sweater that hadn't been worn for three years. She would often devour magazines that featured Hawaii with hungry eyes, taking in every detail the sky and the sea, stacks of pancakes so high that a person had no hope of finishing them alone. Shopping malls lined with designer shops, the lip creams and chocolates you could buy at the local supermarkets and take home as presents for friends. Organic cosmetics that weren't available in shops in Japan. When the girl's chest throbbed with excitement at the sight of these things, the sweater that hadn't been worn for three years could feel it too. Then, with the same degree of obsessive passion, the girl threw herself into decluttering. She began mercilessly throwing away the things around her flat. It was evident immediately that something was up. The girl would roam around her flat with a look of intense focus, darting glances in all directions like a dictator determined to drag each and every one of his citizens from their hiding places, the mugs of which she owned more than 10 the stylish paperbacks in English she'd only ever flicked through the music box she'd treasured since she was a child. The shoes she hadn't worn for two years, the folding umbrellas, of which she had three, the little trinkets and ornaments that lacked any coherent purpose. Nothing, but nothing, escaped the girl's razor sharp gaze. The leather jacket she'd bought because it was the kind of thing her ex was into, the shocking pink miniskirt she had no idea why she owned the socks and the tights, of which she owned over 30 pairs. The T shirt whose collar had stretched with age. The girl opened the closet and inspected each item of clothing with a grave expression. Can I live without this? Is it high time I got rid of this? Do I really need this in my life? The look in her eyes as these questions went reeling through her head was petrifying as objects vanished from the flat one after the other, and the rooms began to grow ever more bare. The sweater that hadn't been worn for three years had a dim sense that it was destined to meet the same fate as the others. After all, it had been three years, and lo and behold, such a thing came to pass. I'd like to go to Hawaii, the sweater said in a tone more certain than before. As you wish, smiled the angel. And yes, the Hawaii where the sweater that hadn't been worn for three years was sent may have been a Hawaii themed paradise exclusively for objects purged in the name of decluttering, but it was still great. The sweater liked it very much indeed, although it should perhaps be mentioned that thus far the sweater had ventured no farther than the poolside. Tomorrow, it would tell itself. Most days. Tomorrow I really will get out and see a bit of the island. But in the end, lying by the poolside drinking tropical fruit juices generated such a deep sense of satisfaction that the sweater kept putting off any excursions. Tomorrow it really would get out and about a bit. It wanted to check out Diamond Head, see what that had in store. The sweater that hadn't been worn for three years wondered if its former owner ever did make it to Hawaii, if all that decluttering had somehow freed her up to go. A towering stack of pancakes topped with a mountain of whipped cream appeared beside the deck chair where the sweater that hadn't been worn for three years was sitting. The sweater took a bite, and the sweetness of the maple syrup scored a direct hit to its brain. Reeling with contentment, the sweater gazed up at the sky. Up there, not far from the rainbow. The pair of skinny jeans, owned in three similar shades, was paragliding together with the dress worn once to a friend's wedding and never again.
- [14:30]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Hawaii, by Aoko Matsuda and translated by Polly Barton, read by Maria Dizia. I'm Meg Wolitzer. If you're like me, maybe the story and Dizzia's performance conjure for you both whimsy and melancholy. If indeed there is an afterlife for formerly beloved pieces of clothing, I do hope for others, a heaven for thrice used kitchen gadgets, a paradise for pristine acoustic guitars, a nirvana for tattered holiday decorations. Next, a story by writer and visual artist Erika Kobayashi. Her novels include Trinity, Trinity, Trinity and Breakfast with Madame Curie. Her collection, Radiant Stories, is the second to be published in English. This piece, which covers an impressive amount of ground in a little more than a thousand words, is read by Rita Wolf. Wolf is best known for her work in the theater, for Off Broadway productions including A Delicate Balance and a recent stint at Yale Rep with Escaped Alone. And here she is performing Sunrise by Erika Kobayashi Translated by Brian Bergstrom.
- [15:45]
Rita Wolf
Sunrise she slowly opens her eyes. She looks into the light of the sun. The sun is 1,400,000 km in diameter. The energy from the nuclear fusion as its center takes over a million years to reach the surface. The surface heat is over 6,000 degrees Celsius. The heat is accompanied by light, light that takes 8 minutes and 19 seconds to reach Earth. She was born in Tokyo on August 10, two years and a day after Nagasaki was blasted, three days after Hiroshima by the flash of a nuclear bomb. She emerged from her mother's womb after 10 months and 10 days. She was named Yoko the Yo from Taiheiyo, Japanese for Pacific Ocean. When she was six years old, she entered elementary school. Her mother divided her long black hair into thirds and braided it out. In the Pacific, bright light flashed over the Bikini Atoll. The United States was testing bombs, setting them off to see what would happen. Atomic first and then hydrogen. A blast of light, a column of water, a mushroom shaped cloud. Out there in the middle of the ocean, the blast washed over a fishing boat, SS Lucky Dragon Number 5. Its crew fell ill and its tuna, now atomic, was taken to the Tsukiji fish Market, only to be buried in the ground. She sat beside her mother in the darkness of a movie theater and watched the story unfold as a black and white newsreel. Her mother was knitting beside her in the darkness, her fingers as nimble with yarn as with her daughter's hair, and she completed the scarf she was making that very day. Later that March, the parliament approved for the first time since the war, funding for nuclear power. The funding totaled 235 million yen, and production began in earnest to make isotope U235. When she was 11 years old, a year before she entered middle school, Japan issued its first 10,000 yen note. It featured Prince Shotoku, known in ancient times as the heavenly being from whence the sun rises. She gazed upon his face, enraptured. Someday I will hold in my hands as many of these as it's possible to hold, she thought. When she was 16 years old, she was a senior in high school, and Japan produced its first nuclear generated electricity. Criticality was achieved in a little village called Tokkai, home of the Japan Power Demonstration Reactor. It made the television news, but her family didn't own a television, and she missed it. What she remembers is her middle school math teacher leaving for Tokai when her husband got a new job there. When she was 18 years old, she went to a women's junior college. Student protests over the U. S. Japan Security Treaty reached their height, but she remained untouched. She graduated with no trouble and looked for a job. When she was 20 years old, she got that job at the Long Term Credit bank of Japan. Her hair was no longer divided in thirds and braided. It was short and curled into a permanent wave. Her wish came true at last. Every day her hands were filled with 10,000 yen notes. They were the banks, not hers, of course, but she nonetheless lost herself in their count. These days, machines do the counting, but back then it was done by women sitting in windows at banks. When she was 30 years old, having worked for 10 years, she married a man who'd quit being a doctor to pursue his dream of becoming a writer. She herself soon enough became the mother of four daughters. I should probably mention that the fourth of these daughters was me, for this is the story of my mother. Nuclear plants sprang up all over Japan. By the time my mother turned 40, 35 reactors delivered 27,881,000 kilowatts of electricity to cities across the country. Their streets glowed day and night with nuclear powered light. When she was 51 years old, the Long Term Credit bank of Japan went under. Yokko's daughters, myself included, had all left home for work or marriage. Yukichi Fukuzawa had long since replaced Prince shotoku on the 10,000 yen note. The bank stocks she'd bought with her savings became worth no more than the paper they were printed on. When she was 63 years old, her husband died, followed by her mother. The next year, we all had to buy new clothes for each funeral. The same year her mother died, an earthquake and tsunami struck Tohoku. The Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant exploded in a blast of light. White clouds rose in the sky in Internet videos as invisible radioactive material rained down. In real life, her mother's death wasn't due to disaster or radiation, though. It was simply old age. She died at night on Christmas. She left behind an unfinished sweater and hat and some balls of vivid red yarn. Street lights and neon signs glowed as snow drifted down oddly from the oddly bright Tokyo night sky. She wore a brand new pitch black morning dress with her hair pulled back and sunglasses on as she counted the money she owed the funeral parlor. Her hands were filled with 10,000 yen notes. Cataract surgery a few years back made even indoor light too bright, so she needed dark glasses to see. Soon after, we all went to a cafe. In the background, the Glenn Miller Orchestra played Moonlight Serenade. I later learned that the song on the original record's B side was called Sunrise Serenade. I also learned that as the world's first nuclear bomb went off at the Trinity site in New Mexico, the radio played that very song. The bomb, called the gadget, was 1.5 meters in diameter. The Manhattan Project's funding totaled $2 billion. The energy released by the fission of plutonium at its center generated heat reaching 66,000 degrees Celsius, 11 times that of the surface of the sun. Everything touched by its light burned. Now Yokko is 68 years old, and another of her daughters will become a mother. After 10 months and 10 days, a baby will emerge from my belly, and as it slowly opens its eyes, it will surely look into the light. The sun.
- [24:00]
Meg Wolitzer
That Was Sunrise by Erika Kobayashi and translated by Brian Bergstrom, Read by Rita Wolf. Note, of course, that the title isn't Sunset. As much as the story grapples with the weight of the past and the loss of loved ones, it ends on a note of optimism and a sense that renewal is almost inevitable. Darkness is often used as a frightening force in stories, but to some degree in Kobayashi's story, light takes on that role. And darkness here also has a human dimension. Needing dark glasses in order to see or wearing a pitch black morning dress. The mother here, and in fact all people, must navigate through both light and darkness, through profound inhuman forces and small human moments in this powerful story. When we return, Infatuation and the high Cost of Mackerel. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to Selected shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide.
- [25:02]
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- [26:15]
Meg Wolitzer
Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. In this hour of shorts, we're listening to stories about things we hold on to and what it might take for us to let them go. And hey, if you like what you hear and you want to hold onto this episode of the show or any episode in our recent past, you can stream it again on our website selectedshorts.org or on your favorite podcasting platform. Our final story of the hour comes from writer Hiromi Kawakami. She is the popular, award winning author of novels including the 10 Loves of Nishino and under the Eye of the Big Bird. This piece gives you a lovely sense of what Kawakami can do when she plays with elements of myth and unusual attractions. Reading it is Hugh Dancy, an actor known for a wide range of TV and film roles, including Hannibal and the latest incarnation of Law and Order. Like all of our performers in this hour, he's a regular on selected shorts and you'll hear why that makes us so happy as Dancy performs I Won't Let yout Go By Hiromi Kawakami Translated by Alison Markin Powell.
- [27:41]
Hugh Dancy
I won't let you go I came by something strange while I was traveling. This was what Enomoto had said to me about two months ago. Enomoto is a painter high school teacher who lives in the apartment directly above mine. We met when we both served on the local Residents association and have been friendly ever since. He would call me on the phone every so often and Say, I'm brewing some nice coffee. I would traipse up the stairs to Enamoto's apartment to enjoy his delicious coffee. We would make small talk, and then I would trudge back down the stairs and return to my own apartment. That was the extent of our relationship. Enamoto's apartment is exactly the same layout as mine, but it has quite a different feel. It's tidy for a bachelor's flat, but what with his painting supplies and his hobby cameras and his magazines on those subjects, there were things all over the place. Interestingly, though, his apartment gave the overall impression of being much more clearly delineated than mine. Enamoto only ever referred to the coffee that he brewed as nice. He would grind the beans on a hand operated coffee mill and use a cloth filter. Then he would gently pour it into warmed coffee mugs. The aroma and the taste were both extremely sophisticated, which is why whenever Enomoto called me for coffee, I would abandon whatever I was doing and traipse up the stairs to his place. Lately, though, there haven't been any invitations from Enamoto for nice coffee. Ever since the call two months ago when he mentioned that he had come by something strange, he hadn't invited me over. Enomoto didn't elaborate about what the strange thing was. Or perhaps he demurred by saying, all in good time. The cherry blossoms were just starting to open. There are big cherry trees outside my apartment, and when the wind blows, petals scatter onto my veranda. Enomoto must have been able to see the tops of the cherry trees from his apartment. Even when they weren't in full bloom, a strong wind would still strew a few petals around. I picked up the petals from the veranda and tried to make them float in a dish filled with water. The ever so faintly peach tinged petals drifted on the surface of the water. I was thus occupied when I got a call from Enomoto. If you don't mind, I'd like to get your advice, enamoto said. I traipsed up the stairs and rang the bell for apartment 402. As soon as he opened the door, I smelled something. I looked around while taking off my shoes, wondering what kind of smell it was. The magazines, the cameras stored carefully on the shelves, the easel, the unfinished painting. Everything in Enamoto's apartment was in its place. I'll brew some coffee, Enamoto said, standing in the kitchen. After a little while, I acclimated to the space, becoming less sure about the smell I'd noticed at first I could no longer tell whether or not it was still present. Here you are. Enomoto emerged from the kitchen carrying a coffee mug in each hand. Had he lost a little weight? How have you been, Enomoto san? I asked. He knit his brows and responded, you could say I'm perfectly fine. But you could also say I'm not perfectly fine with a laugh. I know that's not much of an answer. He laughed again. I laughed along with him and drank the coffee. It was as sophisticated as ever. It's delicious, I said. Enomoto nodded and then blurted out, Two months ago Enomoto wasn't one for putting on airs. As he sat there with slightly downcast eyes, he told this story. Two months ago he took a trip to the south. He traveled down along the coast. On the day before he was to return home, he stayed at a small guest house in a fishing village. As often happened on the last day of a trip, he wasn't tired enough to sleep, and that night he lay there for a long time, listening to the sound of the waves. He was wide awake, so he got out of his bed and went for a walk on the shore. In the middle of the night, the lights on the road along the beach shone on the dunes. There were fishing nets spread out by the water's edge. He walked around, looking for a spot where he might sit down, and before he knew it he found himself by the nets, gazing at them vacantly. He realized there was something in one of them. It wasn't moving. It was smaller than a tuna, but larger than a sea bream. Its tail fin was long. From the fin to its abdomen it was covered in iridescent scales. Above the abdomen there were no scales. It had smooth, pale skin. Long hair was coiled around its upper body, and amid these locks of hair he could see an ample bosom. It was facing away from him, so he couldn't make out any facial features. Ears stuck out from its hair. There were fine iridescent scales on the ears. He turned toward the side of its face that was visible to try to tell whether or not it was breathing. The eyes and mouth were tightly closed. These eyes and mouth looked as though a blade had been used to make slits in pliant white stone. The slight prominence of the nose gently arranged, softly polished out of that same stone. As he stared. After a while he realized that the shoulders were rising and falling. It appeared to be alive. And if it were alive, then it appeared to be a mermaid. A mermaid about one third the size of a grown up human Being the thing you came by, that's what you meant? A mermaid? I exclaimed with surprise. Indeed, Enamoto said, stroking his beard. Oh, so mermaids are that small? I asked. Well, I don't know about other mermaids, Enomoto replied. We looked at each other, unsure of what else to ask. I fell silent. Then Enomoto opened the bathroom door and invited me to enter. There was the mermaid. The bathtub was filled about a third of the way with water, and the mermaid was swimming in it. When she reached one end, she would turn around in the opposite direction until she got to the other end and then turn around again, over and over in an unhurried manner. The mermaid was traversing the bathtub. There was a strong scent of salt water. This briny aroma must have been what I'd noticed earlier when I came in the front door. The mermaid's long hair swayed in the water as she continued to and fro without ever looking our way. So this is about the extent of it, Enamoto said. The extent of it, I replied. But whatever extent it was, the mermaid had just kept going back and forth ever since we'd come in. She just swims like this all the time? I asked. Enamoto nodded. Pretty much, except when she's hungry, he replied. The mermaid, I started to say, but then corrected myself to say this. This person. I didn't know whether or not the mermaid understood human speech, and if she didn't consider herself human, I didn't want her to be offended by the inclusion implied by the term mermaid. Although whether or not it was appropriate to identify her as a person instead of a mermaid was a difficult matter. This. This person. Has she been here the whole time? I asked. She has ever since I brought her home, Enamoto said, taking a horse mackerel from the wash basin beside the bathtub and handing it to the mermaid. The mermaid stopped swimming and took the horse mackerel. Holding its head and tail with both hands, she leaned against the wall of the bathtub and, just like she was playing a harmonica, slid her mouth from the horse mackerel's head to its tail. In one motion, she thoroughly cleaned the meat off the bone. It was an utterly refined manner of eating. The mermaid ate up the entire horse mackerel. She didn't leave a shred behind, nor did she sully the water. Enomoto handed her another, which she ate the same way. She must have eaten five of them. I could have watched her eating horse mackerels forever, but Enomoto didn't give her any more. Once she'd finished eating the last one, the mermaid began swimming to and fro again. Enamoto left the bathroom so reluctantly I followed after him, but I did not want to leave the mermaid's side. You didn't want to come out, did you? Enamoto said after he made me another coffee. What? I responded with surprise. Out of the bathroom, he said. Now that you mention it, probably not, I replied. As I was saying these words, I clearly remembered the feeling of not wanting to leave the mermaid side. It seems they have that effect, Enamoto said, referring to the ancient lore about mermaids and briefly explaining how alluring they can be to humans. On that night two months ago, Enomoto had extracted the mermaid from the net and brought her back to the guest house. The mermaid weighed surprisingly little. He wrapped her in a damp cloth and put her in a plastic bag, he said, and then carried her home like that. Why he brought her home when instead he ought to have taken her to the koban police box or something like that. Even Enomoto didn't understand it at the time. It never occurred to him that bringing her home was an odd thing to do. He just wanted to, and he did, packing her in his bag. She may have been light, but she took up space. And taking her with him. You think you could have brought her to the koban? I asked. Enamoto frowned. I'm telling you this in all seriousness, so please listen. In all seriousness, he said. I am listening. In all seriousness. I'm wondering about the procedure for Lost and found articles, I said. But Enomoto paid no attention to what I said. He just continued with his story. At first I thought I just found it interesting, the way the mermaid swam, or watching her eat fish, and that was why I found it difficult to leave. But then, at some point, I couldn't bring myself to go to work. I would feed her some fish in the morning, and that was it. I just wanted to stay there. Sitting in the bathroom, I finally convinced myself to go to the office, but it's no use. The whole time I'm working, all I can think about is the mermaid. I yearn for the end of the workday to arrive as quickly as possible. Whether I'm teaching students or eating lunch or in a staff meeting, I'm restless and distracted. I practically fly home and into the bathroom. The mermaid is just simply swimming, but I can't take my eyes away from watching her. I try to paint, but even when I'm in front of the canvas, I find that my Feet take me right back into the bathroom. I peek in there dozens of times a day. Before long, I'm spending all my time there. With the exception of sleeping and meals, I'm in the bathroom. As long as I'm by the mermaid side, I feel at ease. I stayed near her, reading books or doing work. I was content with that situation for a time. But one morning, I couldn't bring myself to leave the mermaid, and I ended up missing work. And since then, I've missed work five times. Knowing that things can't go on like this, I decided to ask your help. But, Enomoto san, you're not restless and distracted right now, are you? I asked. I'm desperately pretending not to be, he replied. The truth is, even now, all I want is to go and be with the mermaid. The moment Enomoto said this, I too was seized with a keen desire to be with the mermaid. I couldn't contain myself. I had no idea why I felt so drawn to the mermaid, but the pull was irresistible. We sat there drinking our coffee for a bit longer, but neither of us could really taste it. Enamoto stood up first, then I immediately followed. The two of us headed for the bathroom as if we were in a race. The mermaid was swimming smoothly. She went back and forth in the bathtub with refreshing coolness. Please, I'm begging you to take her. I can't go on like this. At first, I refused Enomoto's repeated entreaties. But eventually, I could no longer say no. Enomoto and I knew very well that the best thing to do would be to return the mermaid to the sea. Although both of us were pretending otherwise, I had barely encountered her, and look at the state I was in. It was somewhat frightening to imagine what it must be like for Enamoto. In the end, I agreed to take her. Enamoto waited for me to fill my bathtub, and then he put the mermaid in a bag and brought her over. He let her slip from the bag as he released her into the water. She immediately started swimming in the bathtub, exactly as she had done at Enomoto's. Well, let's go. I'll make us some tea, I said. But Enamoto did not move from beside the bathtub. I tugged him by the hand, but still he didn't budge. I'll take care of her, I said, and Enamoto slowly looked up. He stared at me. There was no light in his eyes. What was he thinking as he fixed his gaze upon me with those lightless eyes? He Stared at me, silent the whole time. What's the matter, Enomoto san? I asked him, but he remained silent. Come on, let's go. Why don't we have some dinner? I said. But Enamoto still didn't speak. He stared at me silently. Scared, I left the bathroom without him. I listened through the door, but the only sound was that of the water as the mermaid swam about in the bathtub. I waited an hour, and still Enamoto did not emerge. It was totally silent in the apartment, save for the mermaid splashing that echoed against the walls of the bathroom. Although Enomoto himself made no noise at all, his presence hung heavily throughout the apartment. Two hours passed. Three hours passed, and Enomoto did not emerge. I gave up and went to bed. But it wasn't as if I could sleep in the middle of the night. I thought I heard a loud noise. The bathroom door opened, and Enomoto seemed to tumble as he came out. He emitted a kind of shout as he bolted out of the apartment. Thinking he must have taken the mermaid with him, I peeked into the bathroom, but she was still there. She was floating in profile, half submerged in the water. She appeared to float naturally, like cherry blossom petals on the surface of a glass of water. The mermaid floated softly in the water as she slept. It was indeed tough to be away from the mermaid. Each morning, I would feed her horse mackerel or sardines or chubs. Then having to leave for the office was particularly difficult. It had been a few days since Enamoto had entrusted me with the mermaid, but I hadn't heard from him that final shout he had uttered, or whatever kind of sound that had been kept echoing in my ears. I went through the usual motions. Go to work, come home, have dinner, sleep, go to work, come home, have dinner, watch the mermaid sleep. Go to work, come home, have dinner, watch the mermaid sit by the mermaid's side for as long as possible. Sleep, go to work, come home, have dinner, watch the mermaid sit by the mermaid's side for as long as possible, Sleep beside the mermaid. And before I knew it, I was in the same situation as Enamoto. He had told me that at night he slept apart from the mermaid. But that had probably been a lie when it came to eating meals that definitely took place in the bathroom. Not wanting to waste time cooking, I started buying ready made food items. I wasn't sweeping, so the apartment became dusty. I hardly ever opened the curtain. I rarely did laundry. I just stayed in the bathroom. I brought in a chair, a blanket, eating utensils and I lived in there. I barely remembered anything from when I went out. Conversations bored me. I didn't answer the phone. I spent all my time simply watching the mermaid. Occasionally it would occur to me that this was untenable, but I quickly banished those thoughts. I had no interest in talking to anyone, although I was aware of a vague desire to speak to Enomoto. I watched the mermaid swim in the bathtub, then slept, and in the morning, I drifted off to the office. Thoughts of this becoming untenable gradually diminished. By the time Enomoto showed up, such thoughts were completely gone from my mind. It had been a mere week since I had taken the mermaid. There was a heavy knocking sound. Instead of ringing the bell, someone was banging directly on the door. I ignored it, but whoever it was didn't stop. I had been in the bathroom, holding my breath, but when this had gone on for long enough, I came out over the intercom. I asked, who was there? The knocking stopped, and a voice said, it's Enomoto. I opened the door to find him standing there. The look in my eyes. What is it? Must have been the same lightless expression that I'd seen in Enomoto's eyes when I'd gone over to take the mermaid from him, and he hadn't wanted to come out of the bathroom. What is it? I've come for the mermaid. Why? Why? This was only supposed to be temporary. It's not time yet, is it? As I spoke, I had taken a step back. Shall I make some tea? I said as I headed for the bathroom. But this had not escaped Enomoto, and he blocked my way. I borrowed a car. Enomoto said, what? A car? I'm bringing her back to the sea. With this declaration, Enomoto pushed me aside and went into the bathroom. He lifted the mermaid out of the water and her into a large black plastic bag that I hadn't noticed he'd been carrying. No, you can't do this. I cried out. I tried to wrench the bag away from Enomoto, but he was strong. That's why I brought a black bag. It'll be fine as long as I don't see her. If I'm with her too long, though, I'll go right back to how I was. We've got to hurry. Enomoto spoke quickly, dangling the bag with the mermaid in it from one hand and with the other, pulling me by the hand into the elevator. A green car I'd never seen before was parked on the street. Enamoto put the bag with the mermaid in the trunk and started the engine. You can't just put her in the trunk, I said. But Enamoto replied, we'll be there soon. It's fine. No, no.
- [47:21]
Rita Wolf
Stop.
- [47:21]
Hugh Dancy
You can't. I yelled, yanking Enamoto's arm as the car started moving. Don't do that. We'll have an accident. Put your seatbelt on, Enamoto told me briskly. Reluctantly, I put my seatbelt on and we drove to the sea. Cherry trees lined the embankment. Along whatever beach it was, there was a constant scattering of flower petals, despite there being hardly any breeze. Some of the cherry trees were in leaf. Enomoto carried the bag with the mermaid in it, heading for the water's edge with quick steps. The day was glorious. Several gulls flew over from the estuary. The sun's rays weren't very strong yet. The glare on the surface of the water was blinding. The beach was deserted. There were many shells on the sand, their contours worn away by the waves. Hearing the sound of the waves, I grew drowsy. In spite of my desperation, I felt drowsy. Enomoto walked on, his pace unfaltering. Enamoto San. I called after him, but he didn't turn around. I shouted his name again, louder this time, so that the sound of the waves wouldn't drown out my voice. But he just kept on walking. At the water's edge, Enomoto set down the bag. Carefully, he opened it. As soon as he did so, water trickled out onto the sandy beach. The water was quickly absorbed by the sand. You really are sending her back, I said, on the verge of tears as I ran up beside Enomoto. I'm giving her back, enomoto said, although his voice was somewhat weaker than it had been in the car. Let's not do it, I said, and Enamoto blinked his eyes. I'm going to. His voice was even more feeble. It's okay. It isn't as if we're doing anything wrong, I said, my tone tempting. I had no idea where this kind of voice originated. From within me, I suppose not. But Enomoto said, his gaze uneasy. It's a beautiful day. Let's just take a walk and then go home. The mermaid can come with us. Such a soft and sweet voice. It didn't sound like mine. Don't do it. Don't speak to him in that voice, I thought, but I couldn't stop myself. Maybe you're right. Now Enomoto sounded abstracted, as though he were under hypnosis. Don't do this. Don't do this, I thought to myself. But I didn't form the words. We have to send her back, I tried to say, but nothing came out. The mermaid was lying on the sand. She lay there limp, as if the sand were holding up her body. She hadn't said or done anything, and yet neither one of us could tear ourselves away from her. I'm giving her back. Enomoto seemed to force himself to say. I clenched my teeth desperately, knowing that if I opened my mouth, that same soft and sweet voice would come out in silence. Enamoto and I waded into the water together, carrying the mermaid. Our shoes got wet, but we barely noticed. Enomoto held the mermaid's tail fin while I carried her with both of my hands under her arms. When the water was up past our knees, Enamoto said, around here will do. He gave a rallying cry. Heave ho. At this particular moment, I thought to myself, Enamoto could shout heave ho. However many times with as much composure as he could manage. And still neither of us would be able to let go of the mermaid. This is so hard, I said. Enomoto gave a little smile. Seeing his smile, I felt as if I might be able to let go of the mermaid. Heave ho. This time it was I who said it. And at last we flung the mermaid into the sea. Her iridescent scales glimmered as she sank beneath the waves, disappearing from sight. With a plunk, we gave her back. No sooner had I murmured these words to Enomoto than the mermaid's face appeared, floating in between Enomoto and me. Startled, I fell on my bottom now in up to my shoulders in seawater. Even my clothes were sopping wet. The mermaid looked straight at me for a moment. She didn't look at Enamoto. She was only looking at me. It was the first time I'd seen the mermaid's face so closely. Those eyes that seemed carved out of porcelain were staring intently at me. I can't let go after all, I was about to say unwittingly. I can't let go. That instant, the mermaid opened her mouth. Her thin red lips parted. I won't let you go. The mermaid said. Her voice resonated clearly. She spoke with her eyes still fixed on my face. The same shout that Enomoto had uttered the night he ran from my apartment emerged now from my own lips. As I shouted, I started running toward the shore. With the resistance from the water and my sopping wet clothes, I was unable to Run very fast. It felt like trying to run in a dream. Enomoto grabbed me by the hand, bewildered. I was running pell mell, and when I finally reached the beach, my breathing heavy, I heard it once more, coming from behind me. I won't let you go. I covered my ears, burying my face in the sand. I don't know how long I stayed like that, but when I looked up, Enomoto was crouched in front of me, and there was a blanket draped around my body. At some point, the mermaid had gone. I could see fishing boats out at sea. The cherry blossoms had fluttered this far onto the shore. The sand was dusted with petals, like a light snowfall. Cherry blossom petals stuck to my wet hair and clothes. I stared for a while at the scattering cherry trees. Enamoto and I crouched there together, gazing at the shower of flower petals. The next day I ran a high fever, and a few days later, when at last I was feeling like myself again, the cherry trees had lost all their petals. I called Enomoto to thank him. I'm brewing some nice coffee, Enomoto said. So I climbed the stairs up to his place. The tops of the cherry trees in leaf were visible from the windows in Enamoto's apartment. Now's the season when the trees are all leafed out, that the birds begin to arrive, Enomoto said as he made coffee. The birds? Oh, birds are nice. I replied absently, and Enamoto laughed. They're better than mermaids, he said, laughing again. Just what was that mermaid? I murmured. Enomoto looked serious as he responded. We were in her thrall. Enamoto san, how is it that you were able to give her back? I asked. But in the end, you were the one who did it, weren't you? He replied. The wind came up, swaying the branches of the cherry trees. They reminded me of the cherry trees at the shore. I could not remember clearly what the mermaid had looked like, or the distinct feeling of not wanting to be away from her. Only the scattering of the cherry blossoms remained as a detailed memory. Did the mermaid say the same thing to you too, Enamoto san? I asked. He nodded. When I brought her over for you to keep at your place, and I was shut up in the bathroom with her, that was when she said it to me, Enamoto said softly. Both of us were silent as we sipped our coffee. I suppose I just didn't have the strength to never let her go, Enamoto said eventually, his voice full of emotion. It's probably the same for me, I said quietly. Turning to look out the window. New pale green leaves had sprouted on all the trees. The wind shook the fresh green foliage. Each of us continued to stare out the window.
- [56:26]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Hugh Dancy reading I Won't Let yout Go by Hiromi Kawakami and translated by Alison, Mark and Powell. I'm Meg Wolitzer. I think the arc of that story parallels what good stories do in general. Sweep us up in them, keep us in thrall, refuse to let us go. Minus all the self destructive obsession of course. We need to stay close to the narrator long enough to find out what happens at the end of the story. We're driven to find out because hypnotic love, whether it's for a newborn baby, one's beloved, a thrilling piece of art, or a quietly riveting mermaid, takes over the senses and intoxicates, at least for a while. This story also echoes a theme touched on by many writers. Letting go can be difficult, as it does involve loss, even lingering doubts about whether that release was the right choice. But like moving to a new location, it also paves the way for new possibilities. Giving away that old exercise bike and the little dreams that spurred your desire to buy it just might make way for a new you. And who knows, maybe that new you was just made for a rowing machine. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles, are recorded by Phil Richards. Our mix engineer for this episode was Mi? A White. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal performed by the Deardorf Petersen Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.
- [59:08]
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