Commentary

AMY YAMADA

Sometimes, my ex calls me up. I’ve never really had any bad breakups before, so our conversations usually fill me with warmth and happiness.

“Is now a good time to talk?”

I like men with manners. I like it when the conversation starts polite until I gradually start sensing some vague notes of naughtiness from the other end of the line. It’s exhilarating. I love talking on the phone with men who make me slightly regret we ever broke up in the first place. This one probably has a wife or a cute girlfriend now, and yet he still conscientiously calls this woman he used to date—a woman he once chose and who chose him as well. There’s a hint of danger to the relationship, which makes it all the more fun.

Whenever an ex calls me, I rest my head on my current partner’s lap while he’s napping and thoroughly enjoy the shameless chatting. As I engage in this extended phone conversation with my ex, I feel a sense of security that the lap I’m lying in is going to be by my side for as long as I need him. Perhaps my ex is lying in a cute woman’s lap while he’s talking to me, too.

All of a sudden, my partner rolls over in his sleep, perhaps uncomfortable from the weight of my head. I lift my head and glance back at him when I’m hit with a feeling like I’m doing something that maybe I shouldn’t be. “Sorry,” I mutter while imagining myself sticking my tongue out at him. “I won’t be long. Just a few more minutes.” I simply cannot hang up; the phone conversation continues.

It’s similar to how I feel when I read Seiko Tanabe’s novels. Like, Oh no, I shouldn’t do this but also, Ah, this is so nice. I never regret those feelings. The stories warm my heart, but they make my heart ache as well, and those emotions give me a sense of relief.

Tanabe’s work stimulates something deep within me that I’ve long forgotten, just like in the story where the protagonist’s ex calls her out of the blue. At times, to my surprise, it’s as if the story is identifying truths I was never even aware of. I find myself a bit flustered when the stories expose things about me that haven’t crossed my mind even once.

This novel is filled with various short stories like that. Kozue in “I Always Had a Feeling” is a dreamer who finds herself attracted to her sister’s fiancé a little too much, which causes her to feel embarrassed and act out. She pretends not to notice, and yet she knows all too well how she really feels. She knows that’s not something she’s supposed to feel, and it makes her even more self-conscious, which in turn makes her want to hide those feelings further. Reading Kozue’s story made me clasp my hand over my mouth from the realization that this was a reflection of me.

Seeing Mimi put her own satisfaction second in “Men Hate Muffins” felt like having someone point out something similar inside us that we all share, which is startling, to say the least.

“Until It Snows” is a hopeful story that shows us someone, who appears to be a bland middle-aged woman, living her best life in secret. In “Josee,” she uses the phrase We’re a couple of bodies to describe the frustration of not being able to convey what it feels like to be happy, something I couldn’t help but agree with. All women can relate to these short stories, which make us snap our fingers, or let out a surprised little shout, or say to ourselves, “I know how that feels” with a hint of sorrow in our voices. We even relish the feeling.

I’m particularly fond of the short story “Love’s Coffin.” The protagonist, Une, has a wonderful split personality. Once a woman realizes she has a split personality, she either turns to self-loathing or starts loving herself even more. It all depends on what kind of woman she is. An unaccomplished woman never develops a wonderful split personality, nor is she capable of reflecting on it even if she realizes she has two personalities. Plus, it takes a wonderful man to shape a woman into someone with a wonderful split personality. An idiot would only turn her into a traitor. Of course, the woman can’t be an idiot, either. Someone with a wonderful split personality must be talented.

In a way, all of Seiko Tanabe’s protagonists are blessed with such talent: a talent to love life.

I often find myself burying my nose in her novels whenever I’m feeling aggravated or downhearted. They teach me how to enjoy my own life. No other books can teach me that, no matter how advanced or philosophical they may be. All they do is confuse my empty head. How many things out there can you say make you happy, without the need of some hard-to-understand theory about happiness? And how many people out there don’t even know these things exist? I would never recommend any of Seiko Tanabe’s novels to them. It’d be a waste.

My ex who called me earlier asked me, “What are you doing now?”

“I’m reading one of Seiko Tanabe’s novels.”

He immediately started cackling. “Again? I don’t understand how you enjoy those things so much.”

And I don’t care that he doesn’t understand. I would never want a man to understand the thrill. Meanwhile, I’m becoming a nicer person thanks to Seiko Tanabe’s works. My heart is filled with a warm regret—the regret I felt for having forgotten to tell this ex certain things. But I’ll set those regrets aside, because I have to give the best leftovers to the man I’m currently with.

I bet my ex thinks I’m still hiding the best-smelling leftovers, which is why our phone calls are always long. He wants to know what that smell is. I usually never call him myself. I always think, What if a woman picks up instead? I’m a very timid person, to be honest. Not that my ex realizes, of course. I’m always shameless and slightly charming whenever I talk to him on the phone in front of my current partner. My ex has no idea that I only let on that I’m a timid person as a last resort. And just like that, my personality gradually splits into two. Of course, I still have a long way to go before I become someone as wonderful as the women with split personalities in Seiko Tanabe’s stories, but I can’t deny that I feel a glimmer of hope that I might someday be like them: a mature woman who can casually tuck away the possibility that she may hurt the man she loves, just like the protagonist in “Love’s Coffin.”

I wrote that Seiko Tanabe’s novels stimulate something long forgotten in the depths of my heart. On that note, there’s one particular memory I can still recall even now: It involves a bar of chocolate.

I was three years old and living in Sapporo with my parents. My mother was in the hospital giving birth to my little sister. She was there for an extremely long time, since it was apparently a difficult delivery.

My father and I had it rough while she was gone. We had just moved here and didn’t know anyone who could help us cook us dinner, nor did we have any relatives who lived nearby. My mother’s younger sister came all the way to this cold region to look after me for the second half of my mother’s hospital stay. Until then, my young father fed me baguettes day in and day out. I had them with butter some days and jam others but started to get fed up with it all.

I watched it snow outside and idly thought about how unlucky I was. But when I looked to my noble, courageous father, I had to give up on the idea that I was doomed to misfortune. I started to feel terrifyingly indifferent about it all, at least as much as a three-year-old could. Apparently, that puzzled my aunt.

Eventually, my mother came home. Her face was glowing and radiant, and in her arms was a monkey-like baby. I had no idea what to do. I felt detached: Oh, so this is what my mother abandoned me for.

“Futaba”—my real name—“was such an angel while you were gone,” my aunt gushed. My father was overjoyed the moment he saw his brand-new child and couldn’t take his hands off her.

My mother came over to me as I sat in silence in front of the potbelly stove. “Sorry I was gone for so long,” she said, patting me on my head. And then she gave me a chocolate bar and told me it was my reward. It was one of those Japanese chocolate bars I’m sure everyone is familiar with—the ones that look like a Hershey’s bar.

I started eating it. “She’s such a good girl,” I heard my aunt say. The sweetness and bitterness from the chocolate slowly spread throughout my mouth as I slowly came to a realization: They should have treated me like this the whole time. Things would’ve been easier if they’d rewarded me sooner.

I ate the chocolate as I wordlessly cried to myself. The tears were comforting and warm, and before I realized it, I was sobbing to the point of hiccupping. All the adults in the room looked at me. My father stood stock-still in confusion while my mother cradled me in her arms, and my aunt burst out laughing. That day, I learned one way to make life more enjoyable.

The reason why I remember all this so vividly despite being just three years old at the time is because it’s my earliest childhood memory. I, unfortunately, can no longer remember the warmth I felt at that moment, of course. But whenever I open one of Seiko Tanabe’s novels, I get to taste that bar of chocolate once more.