Sublime

A little after two, we made it back to Minowa, the closest station to my place. Stopping along the way for a 210-yen bowl of noodles, we braved the heat and walked the ten minutes home, while the cries of cicadas smeared the atmosphere.

Shobashi comes alive at night. From appearances, it’s a dump. And from sundown to sun-up, on the third floor of a building throbbing with karaoke reverb, you’ll find the bar where Makiko works, five nights a week, from seven until around midnight.

‘Well then, Mr Taro Yamada. Let’s get to business. What dish are you looking for?’ asked Koishi. ‘I’d like you to help me with a certain kind of mackerel sushi.’ ‘What kind, exactly?’ asked Koishi, scribbling away with her pen. ‘The refined type they serve at the Izu restaurant? Or something a bit more rough and ready, like you get at Hanaori?’

of men again. But now I had made my home by the shore. Sometimes, after staying in a village parlor till the family had all retired, I have returned to the woods, and, partly with a view to the next day's dinner, spent the hours of midnight fishing from a boat by moonlight, serenaded by owls and foxes, and hearing, from time to time, the creaking