This Thursday Marks One Year

By Paweł Jałoszyński

After immersing himself for years in the captivating allure of Japan, Jan faces the daunting prospect of returning to Europe. However, he finds himself addicted to the beauty of the Land of the Rising Sun, desperately needing an antidote to his overwhelming attachment. A psychiatrist crafts an experimental therapy for him, aimed at unlocking his ability to thrive away from the places he has grown to adore.

In this unique treatment, Jan is joined by Nanako, the captivating Miss of Ibaraki Prefecture. As his guide, her mission is to help Jan detach from his deep-rooted emotions – a task that risks the well-being of those around him. Nanako, with her own hidden complexities, introduces Jan to the lesser-seen facets of Japan, exposing the ugliness that lurks beneath its surface. Her own beauty and mysterious past add layers of challenge to the therapy, leading to unforeseen outcomes.

Their journey is a dance of contrasts, weaving through the beauty and darkness of Japan, confronting good and evil, and challenging aesthetic and emotional perceptions. For Jan, even his profound knowledge of Japan is put to the test by Nanako’s unpredictable guidance, forcing him to confront his own cynicism and tendency to manipulate others for his objectives.

Their travels are accompanied by the ethereal presence of Issa, a renowned Japanese haiku poet known for his iconoclastic views. His enigmatic verses infuse their journey with an intimate and emotionally charged atmosphere, framing their exploration of Japan’s other side in a poetic light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035846634

Paweł Jałoszyński

Paweł Jałoszyński is a Polish chemist, molecular biologist, entomologist, palaeontologist, researcher of cell nuclei and discoverer of unknown insects. Each of these passions filled a part of his life with unbridled curiosity and hours of intense work. He named 700 species unknown to science, explored the mysteries of Cretaceous amber and peered into the heads of microscopic beetles using gigantic synchrotrons. For five years, he lived and worked in Japan, visiting its farthest corners, absorbing the culture of the smallest islands, breathing the history, nature, and mythology of the Land of the Rising Sun.

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About the Author

Paweł Jałoszyński is a Polish chemist, molecular biologist, entomologist, palaeontologist, researcher of cell nuclei and discoverer of unknown insects. Each of these passions filled a part of his life with unbridled curiosity and hours of intense work. He named 700 species unknown to science, explored the mysteries of Cretaceous amber and peered into the heads of microscopic beetles using gigantic synchrotrons.

For five years, he lived and worked in Japan, visiting its farthest corners, absorbing the culture of the smallest islands, breathing the history, nature and mythology of the Land of the Rising Sun.

Copyright Information ©

Paweł Jałoszyński 2024

The right of Paweł Jałoszyński to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035846627 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035846634 (ePub e-book)

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First Published 2024

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yaya samuki

ushiro ni tōshi

Tsukuba-yama

frosty air

far behind my back

Mount Tsukuba

Kobayashi Issa, 1803

1. Halfway

On the wooden porch, a gentle breeze was sticking confetti to our faces. When the petals fell on my lips, I licked them greedily, and then the salty sweat was enriched with the sugary pinkness of sakura, creating one of the unique hues of flavours that spring here offered. The Kiyomizu-dera Temple towered above Kyōto, and from the terrace, there was a magnificent view of the great city. The city that was still called the Capital although, after a thousand years, it had lost this status to Edo since then renamed Tōkyō—the Eastern Capital. I do not remember the first time I noticed that the syllable kyō in the two names was written with the same character—in its centre, there was a rectangle drawn with three brush strokes, and its empty interior was a mirror through which I passed yesterday with Nanako to the other side, to try to cure myself of madness once again.

The March cherry-pink morning on the porch of Kiyomizu was very pleasant, and because of that, I felt a growing anxiety. Nanako looked at me with concern.

"Dō?"

The Japanese are able to concentrate long phrases into short, concise words. I, too, could ask: How? and under certain conditions, the interlocutor would probably guess what I mean. But only in this strange language did it sound so natural. Nanako poured all her concern into one perfectly ordinary consonant and one long vowel, almost a sigh. In this abbreviated form, Japanese was close to a wordless conversation—"Dō?" was needed only because I was not looking at the girl and it was not enough for her to meet my eyes with a worried expression. But there was a reason why I could not afford to look at Nanako, she had no choice but to speak up.

Bad.

How bad?

Very very. Very.

Too soon?

It’s so beautiful, you can’t take me from here by yourself, Nana-chan. I will stay here forever. I will live in a hollow tree and you won’t pull me out.

Why didn’t you go on this journey with a big, strong man? One that could easily get you out of here?

A man wouldn’t be a challenge. The idea was to dive into deep water. I wanted to jump off the roof of a skyscraper, heal myself in flight, and land cured.

Nanako knew what I was talking about, and instinctively looked beyond the wooden railing at the lush grass thirteen metres down. Maybe she was right, maybe such a method would be simpler. It was not until the end of the nineteenth century that jumping from this platform was forbidden—popular belief attributed to such a jump the power to grant wishes. As long as the jumper managed to get up and use the lottery ticket. Chronicles from the Edo period recorded over two hundred jumps, but no accounts of the happy daredevils who managed to extort a gift from the gods have survived.

No, Nana, I’m not going to jump. I still have so much sense.

At this time of year, the view of the wooded hills and the vermillion Koyasu pagoda looming in the distance was too beautiful for me, and even Nanako couldn’t help it. Each tree here had a different shade and only this one colour could make me dizzy. The spring freshness of the vegetation made me look at it with the hungry eye of a herbivore. I wanted to devour all those zelkova, cypress, shii and momiji trees (just not to look at them in the fall when they explode with their treacherous reds that had trapped me in this country for so long). My stomach rumbled. It was my hunger that terrified Nanako so much, she was just beginning to realise what a task she was carrying on her weak (and how beautiful) shoulders.

Why not an ugly woman? It would be easier.

Oh, Nana-chan, easy ways are ineffective. Besides, didn’t the Buddha say to the sage Vasishta: ‘Women are goddesses, women are life, women are jewels. In your mind, always be among women?’ I’m sure he didn’t mean ugly women.

Nanako laughed but saw that it only hindered the healing process. So she returned to silent contemplation of the image of green hills steaming in front of us with a charm of pure beauty. After a while, she took a large biscuit from her purse, tore the wrapper noisily, and began to eat it with great relish. I gripped the wooden railing tightly with sweaty fingers and shivers ran down my body.

Frosted cherry geysers shot up amid these delicious spring greens. As the wind intensified its efforts, the ribbons and clouds of pale pink petals swirled before my eyes. I felt like a diabetic in an award-winning master’s confectionery. I could barely bear the sight of it. I had to distract myself from the fairy-tale scenery (and not look at Nanako now!), to keep my weakening consciousness, straining the remnants of willpower I still had. It was my weakness that terrified her so much, the weakness I revealed before her.

It was easier when I thought about more mundane things. About the history of the capital. It was probably the only city in the world built to stop priests from climbing over the ruler’s head. Emperor Kanmu had had enough of the conflicting Buddhist sects and their leaders in the old capital of Nara, the constant meddling of bald and bearded monks in politics, and their debilitating struggles at court. He had a new city built, modelled on the Chinese capital, today known as Xi’an.

He could not, of course, drive away the troublesome, prevailing priests, it was still unthinkable in those days. But he forbade them from moving to new premises. He also found a convenient place for his venture, bearing in mind the strategic allocations of land for new Buddhist temples—after all, he could not build a completely secular capital at a time when the emperor himself performed religious functions. He could, however, ventilate the surroundings a bit and establish new rules of access to the court and politics. Or at least give it a try—it took many centuries for people to realise that religion would always find a way to reach power and public coffers.

Thanks to careful planning and modern technical thought of the Taoist progress leaders—Chinese feng shui geomancers, the most powerful monasteries were erected on the hills surrounding the new city to protect its inhabitants from evil influences. The monks built great temple complexes there, and it was only after they had settled in for good in their heights that they realised that although they had gained new land and a few more villages (someone had to work to maintain this bunch of freeloaders), they were removed at such a distance from the emperor’s ear that it was very difficult to maintain the previous intensity of the emotional court intrigues.

Of course, that did not stop the monks from meddling in politics (nothing ever did), but at least during the lifetime of Emperor Kanmu and his closest successors, there was some peace in the city. Then it was called Heian Kyō—the Capital of Peace. Or was it tranquil or peaceful a better translation? The ambiguity of Japanese words allowed for an escape from the rigid framework and even for a certain linguistic anarchy. Peace or tranquillity—none of these noble ideas contained in the name of the capital prevented Kanmu from sending his armies from here to conquer the lands of the Emishi people living in the far (then called deep) north. Later times… Well, Buddhism was not always just a path to nirvana, and the Japanese sōhei, warrior monks, gained great publicity.

Entire armies appeared, financed by one sect or another, a faction or temple. Even within one doctrine, disputes could reach the stage of street fights and regular battles. Sōhei of the Enryaku-ji temple on Mount Hiei overlooking Kyōto waged a war with an army of monks from Mii-dera, located at the foot of the same massif—both monasteries belonged to the Buddhist Tendai sect. The mountain monks took over, that is, they burnt down the temple of those below, even twice. Though there were times when the Buddha-blessed prior of Enryaku-ji made an alliance with his close-to-sanctity counterpart from Mii-dera and together they launched a combined army of warlike monks against the hated Kōfuku-ji or Kiyomizu.

Anyway, it was not easy for the new sects of the spiritual path to enlightenment and breaking out of the karmic curse—in the sixteenth century when an innovative branch of Buddhism called Nichiren began to gain popularity, all of its temples in Kyōto were set on fire by holy men from Mount Hiei. The latter were finally slaughtered in the sixteenth century by Oda Nobunaga, the national hero of Japan, who had no prejudices about his faith and was guided by a simple rule of life, so well captured in his famous saying: little bird, if you don’t sing, I will kill you.

It did not help to think about the complicated history of the Capital, its monasteries and the victims of mundane ambitions. Nanako must have noticed this because she finished eating her cookie, put the crumpled wrapping in her backpack, and kicked my ankle with all her might.

I felt better immediately.

Part I

Failures

2. Beginning

It was not easy for me to meet Miss Ibaraki Prefecture. Even if she won the title ten years ago. There was something mysterious about her past that prevented her from making a great career. She hid in a small, provincial hometown of Mito, and it was very difficult to get to her. But, when Dr Yamamoto showed me her picture, I remembered that face on the television from many years ago, and I knew immediately that she would be my cure.

Now I think the doctor cleverly manoeuvred me into this strange situation, but then, in a cramped office cluttered with hideous plastic figures from various Japanese cartoons, I saw a light in the tunnel and gladly agreed to his crazy idea. As long as Nanako agrees, as long as she accepts the challenge (she herself was also supposed to be a challenge, but I could not tell her that).

It was very bad for me then. The beauty that was distilled drop by drop from the sky over Japan flowed through my veins and affected my normal functioning. I needed help. I could not heal myself from progressive gangrene.

I travelled to the great and already partially green Kantō Plain, to Mito, a hundred kilometres northeast of the Tōkyō centre. The capital of Ibaraki Prefecture, the city of Hitachiyama Taniemon, the greatest yokozuna in the history of sumō, was also the place where the famous Kairaku-en flourished every year—one of the Three Great Gardens of Japan. I preferred to think of Hitachiyama, the beauty of the ume trees blooming in Kairaku-en terrified me. I was there several times, glittery reflections of the plum petals were already flowing in my bloodstream poisoned with Japan, clogging my arteries. I was suffering from an advanced aesthetic atherosclerosis.

The most famous sumō master, on the other hand, had a safely ugly face that gave me the impression of a huge deep-sea fish. Although his short life, ended in the 1820s, might have been the subject of a beautiful story (oh, that famous flight to Nagoya when his trainer forbade him to marry his daughter!), focusing my thoughts on him was therapeutic. Especially that I was expecting the worst (which of course happened) and I had to gather my strength before the most important battle (which I only partially managed).

The worst took the form of an offer to meet the Ibaraki’s most beautiful women in the most beautiful of Ibaraki’s gardens, and at the time of the year that made it so famous. Three misfortunes, all of my own accord. The complicated chain with which my request went—from close acquaintances with names unknown to anyone, to very famous people I do not know—led me after three months of strenuous efforts to Nanako herself. There were also many unsaid warnings along the way, a few meaningful looks, a lot of sighs, and an air of disbelief. However, since the whole machine was set in motion, and I invested so much time in my efforts, nothing could turn me back from my chosen path.

Unfortunately, I could not include the condition that the meeting was to be held in the ugliest, repulsive, dingy place (and where to find one? The public toilet was not an option…). It was not right. Dr Yamamoto would understand, but it would surely ruin my efforts to make such a request. Famous friends of ordinary acquaintances brought in contact. They also made sure that Nanako was properly intrigued by their stories. Kairaku-en had to be the natural place of the arranged tête-à-tête. The imposing aesthetics of the situation left no one a choice.

So I pulled myself together (or at least I told myself that was what I did), stuffed myself with the medicines prescribed by my doctor from the mountains (Yamamoto meant more or less that), and went to the south gate of the garden. Already on the way, a flood of white, pink and red ume flowers filled my soul and made my heart beat faster. I barely made it to the entrance, focusing on the wet, trampled ground beneath my feet. Fortunately, the crowd of human bodies coming from the shore of Lake Senba, the railroad and parking lots added an invaluable element of ugliness and clutter. You could bump into strangers with disgust, fall into smelly clouds of cigarette smoke, avoid the last second contact with kids devouring some snacks splashing a sauce, or spot a particularly toothy monster here and there, grinning from one large protruding ear to another in front of the camera lens, held by a happy connoisseur of her baroque ugliness.

It all helped a lot. I was taught this technique by Dr Yamamoto, to whom I owed the opportunity to reach Nanako, although I did not fully share his optimism. I was not late for the meeting and only the unusual arrangements of multicoloured petals floating on the surface of the puddle, and then a pretty bird jōbitaki stopped me for several minutes, as I fought frantically to free my eyesight and turn my head away. This vivid bird with a red belly and a white streak on its ashen wing kept me in its magical power for longer. He shook his head, stared at the freak from Europe and burnt his image into my absorbent brain. No wonder—it settled down on a twisted twig of an old plum tree, perhaps remembering the times of Tokugawa Nariaki, who ordered the famous garden to be arranged.

As if the jōbitaki were working as a full-time model here—he chose the exposed stage, framed by ume’s red flowers, and did his best to attract human attention. He presented himself as a shape-shifting work of art, and it was hard to take your eyes off his performances. Now he was breaking the harmony of the floral scenery, covering part of it and assuming defiantly raised poses, only to become the axis of the image’s symmetry in a moment—flower-tail-head-flower—stretched out into a slender fiery arrow pointing to the directions of the world. I’ve already had a lot of such birds in my aching head full of beauty. The jōbitaki himself was both a work of art and an artist-actor, yet he could still call out with a crystal voice that made the air burst into a million crumbs.

Yes, all my memory was filled with such images, all the free spaces between the mountains, oceans, beaches and forests were teeming with animals and plants, thousands of faces leaned out of this jungle, a million sounds, stories, shapes, smells and tastes remained in me, and it did not want to make room for anything new. And yet there were sensations burning with white heat in every corner of the mind, there were unforgettable emotions, there were…

I met with Nanako and, closing my eyes (I’m not looking at her, not yet) explained it all in the corner by the garbage cans. How had she managed to find the patience to indifferently pass by plum trees and bamboo plumes in such an unimaginably beautiful ancient garden, past winter camellia sprinkling huge red petals from a gleaming green crown and pine trees with fanciful pillows of coniferous branches? Only to stop in the ugliest corner of the park and listen to a stranger’s nonsense. Only to agree to his request. I never understood that.

I suspected that something was wrong with Nanako as well, a normal person would tap their forehead and walk away after two minutes of such a conversation. Or maybe friends of friends told her incredible stories about my life, and she decided to find out for herself how much truth was in them? It also crossed my mind that maybe she, too, wanted to cure herself of something. Broken people attract broken people, there is some cosmic regularity in that. It didn’t matter to me then.

The most beautiful (once, but still…) woman of my beloved and so hated Ibaraki Prefecture (I got rid of old flaws and addiction there, only to gain new obsessions, a thousand times worse) agreed to become my doctor and medicine. An antidote, a drop that was supposed to pour a bowl full of beauty to empty it, to pour out this weakness from me, to make room for something new, to enable me to tear out, to cut Japan out of the inside of my head. If possible, without destroying the packaging.

She agreed, and for the entire week from our first meeting to starting therapy, she devised a plan of action. It was so easy back then—I was a repulsive, if probably harmless freak to her, and the role she was offered was sure to be interesting. After all, I was the one who paid for everything, and her life has not been full of emotions lately.

3. Tsukuba

Before we went to the places that were supposed to pose serious challenges to my desensitisation, we spent some time in Tsukuba. It was an obvious choice. A small, modern city with only scarce remnants of the