come along” with him.
“Where do you do this mushroom hunting?” Sensei asked.
The owner craned his neck even further. “Around Tochigi,” he answered. Sensei and I exchanged glances once again. The owner awaited our reply, his neck still outstretched. At the same moment that I wondered aloud, What do you think . . . ? Sensei responded, Let’s go. Somehow, just like that, it was decided that we would go mushroom hunting in Tochigi via the owner’s car.
I KNOW ABSOLUTELY nothing about cars. Neither does Sensei. The bar owner’s car was white and boxy, unlike the sort of streamlined cars that you often saw these days in the city. This car was squarish and outdated, and somewhat austere, the kind that was common more than ten years ago.
The plan was to meet up outside the bar at six in the morning on Sunday. So I set my alarm for 5:30 AM and, without even washing my face, grabbed the musty old rucksack that I had dug out from the back of my closet the night before as I left my apartment. The sound of the key as I locked the front door echoed unpleasantly in the morning air. I couldn’t stop myself from yawning repeatedly as I headed for the bar.
Sensei had already arrived. He stood there perfectly straight, his briefcase in hand, as always. The trunk of the car was open wide, and the bar owner’s upper body was thrust inside.
“Is that equipment for hunting mushrooms?” Sensei asked.
“No,” the owner replied, without changing position. “I’m bringing this stuff to my cousin’s place in Tochigi.” His voice reverberated from within the trunk.
The things he was bringing to his cousin’s place in Tochigi consisted of several paper bags and one long, rectangular package. Sensei and I both peered over the owner’s shoulder. A crow cried from atop a utility pole. Caw, caw, caw, caw, it called, sounding just like a crow. Its voice seemed a bit more carefree than when I heard crows during the daytime.
“These are Soka senbei and Asakusa nori,” the owner said, pointing at the paper bags.
“I see,” Sensei and I replied in unison.
“And this is saké.” He pointed at the long package.
“Yes,” Sensei said, his briefcase hanging straight down. I said nothing.
“My cousin, he really likes Sawanoi saké.”
“As do I,” Sensei said.
“It’s great. But my bar serves Tochigi saké.”
The owner seemed much more relaxed than when he was at the bar. He looked at least ten years younger. Hop in, he said, opening the rear door and leaning halfway into the driver’s seat to start the car. Once the engine caught, he extricated himself from the front seat and went to close the trunk. He made sure that Sensei and I were settled into the backseat and walked a full circle around the car, then stood there smoking a cigarette before getting in to the driver’s seat. He yanked on his seatbelt and slowly stepped on the accelerator.
“Thank you so much for inviting us today,” Sensei called out formally from the backseat.
The owner swiveled around, beaming at us. “Let’s take it easy.” He had a nice smile. But he still had his foot on the gas pedal and the car continued to inch forward while he was completely turned around.
“Um, ahead of you,” I murmured, but the owner merely craned his neck in my direction. “Huh?” he asked. Still facing us, he made no effort to glance in front of him. All the while the car continued to glide forward.
Sensei cautioned, “You might want to look ahead,” while I cried out at the same time, “Up ahead! Up ahead!” A utility pole was close at hand.
“Oh?!” The owner spun back around and turned the steering wheel just in time to avoid the pole. Sensei and I both gave a deep sigh.
“No worries,” the owner said as he sped up. What on earth was I doing here in a stranger’s car? And this early in the morning!? I still had no idea what mushroom hunting entailed, and I felt as if I were still drinking. The car sped along faster, despite my confusion.
I MUST HAVE dozed off. When I opened my eyes, we were on a mountain road. I had been awake until we had gotten off the expressway onto a smaller highway that I didn’t know the name of. The three of us had chatted intermittently, about the fact that Sensei had taught Japanese, that I had been his student, that my grades in Japanese class had been unremarkable, that the bar owner’s name was Satoru, that there were lots of modashi mushrooms to be found in the mountains where we were heading. I might have liked to know more about these modashi mushrooms, or to share just how strict a teacher Sensei had been, but since Satoru kept turning all the way around whenever he spoke to us, Sensei and I made sure not to seem too interested in eliciting small talk.
The car slowly climbed the mountain road. The windows had been open, but Satoru closed his now. Sensei and I followed suit, rolling up the rear windows. The air had grown slightly chilly. I could hear the crystalline sound of birdsong from within the mountains. The road gradually narrowed.
We came to a fork in the road. One way was paved, the other way was gravel. Just as we pulled onto the gravel road, the car came to a stop. Satoru got out and walked further up the gravel road. Sensei and I stayed in the backseat as we watched Satoru.
“Where could he be going?” I pondered, and Sensei tilted his head. I opened the window and cool mountain air rushed in. The birds’voices were close. The sun was now high in the sky. It was past nine o’clock.
“Tsukiko, do you think we’ll get back?” Sensei said suddenly.
“What?”
“Somehow I have the feeling that we might not make it back home again.”
You’re not serious, I replied, and Sensei smiled. He fell silent after that, staring at the rearview mirror. You must be tired, I added, but he shook his head.
“Not at all. Not at all!”
“You know, Sensei, it’s not too late to turn back.”
“‘Turn back’? How do you mean?”
“Well . . . ”
“Let’s go along with this together. No matter where.”
“What?”
Was Sensei having a bit of fun? I stole a glance at his face but his expression was the same as always. Calm and reassured. He was sitting up straight, his briefcase lying next to him on the seat. While I puzzled over this, Satoru came down the hill with another person in tow.
The other man was a perfect double of Satoru. The two of them opened the trunk and hurriedly carried the packages up the hill. Just as I thought they were out of sight, they returned, both of them stopping beside the car to puff on cigarettes.
“G’morning!” Satoru’s double said as he got into the passenger seat.
“This is my cousin Toru,” Satoru introduced him. Toru looked just like him, in every way. His face, his expression, his build, even the air about him—they were exactly alike.
“So, Toru, I hear that you enjoy Sawanoi saké,” Sensei said. With his seatbelt fastened, Toru twisted himself around to face the back. “That’s right, I sure do!” he replied cheerfully.
“But saké from Tochigi is still better,” Satoru added, turning around at the same angle as Toru. The car had started up the mountain road. Just as Sensei and I each let out a cry, the front end of the car scraped up against the guardrail.
“Idiot,” Toru muttered nonchalantly. Satoru smiled as he turned the steering wheel. Sensei and I let out another sigh. I could hear muffled birdsong from the forest.
“SENSEI, ARE YOU going to hike in those clothes?”
We