“A delayed adolescence, I guess. When I get up in the morning and see my face in the mirror, it looks like someone else’s. If I’m not careful, I might end up left behind.”
“So wouldn’t it be better to just let it go, then?” I said.
“But if I lost myself, where could I go?”
“If it’s for a couple of days, you can stay at my place. You’d always be welcome—the you who lost
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Sumire laughed.
“All joking aside,” she said, “where in the world could I be heading?”
“I don’t know. Look on the bright side—you’ve stopped smoking, you’re wearing nice clean clothes—even your socks match now—and you can speak Italian. You’ve learned how to judge wines, use a computer, and at least for now go to sleep at night and wake up in the morning. You must be heading somewhere.”
“But I still can’t write a line.”
“Everything has its ups and downs.”
Sumire screwed up her lips. “Would you call what I’m going through a defection?”
“Defection?” For a moment I couldn’t see what she meant.
“Defection. Betraying your beliefs and convictions.”
“You mean getting a job, dressing nicely, and giving up writing novels?”
“Right.”
I shook my head. “You’ve always written because you wanted to. If you don’t want to any more, why should you? Do you think your not writing is going to cause a village to burn to the ground? A ship to sink? The tides to get messed up? Or set the revolution back five years? Hardly. I don’t think anybody’s going to label that
“So
I shook my head again. “The word
“Commune? Do you mean the places Lenin made?”
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“Those are called kolkhoz. There aren’t any left, though.”
“It’s not like I want to give up writing,” Sumire said. She thought for a moment. “It’s just that when I try to write, I can’t. I sit down at my desk and nothing comes—no ideas, no words, no scenes.
“You’re asking me?”
Sumire nodded.
I took a sip of my cold beer and gathered my thoughts. “I think right now it’s like you’re positioning yourself in a new fictional framework. You’re preoccupied with that, so there’s no need to put your feelings into writing. Besides, you’re too busy.”
“Do
“I think most people live in a fiction. I’m no exception. Think of it in terms of a car’s transmission. It’s like a transmission that stands between you and the harsh realities of life. You take the raw power from outside and use gears to adjust it so everything’s all nicely in sync. That’s how you keep your fragile body intact. Does this make any sense?”
Sumire gave a small nod. “And I’m still not completely adjusted to that new framework. That’s what you’re saying?”
“The biggest problem right now is that you don’t know what sort of fiction you’re dealing with. You don’t know the plot; the style’s still not set. The only thing you do know is the main character’s name. Nevertheless, this new fiction is reinventing who you are. Give it time, it’ll take you under its wing, and you may very well catch a glimpse of a new world. But you’re not there yet, which leaves you in a precarious position.”
“You mean I’ve taken out the old transmission, but haven’t quite finished bolting down the new one? And the engine still’s
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running. Right?”
“You could put it that way.”
Sumire made her usual sullen face and tapped her straw on the hapless ice in her drink. Finally she looked up.
“I understand what you mean by
“Like a little lost Sputnik?”
“I guess so.”
“But you do have Miu,” I said.
“At least for now.”
For a while silence reigned.
“Do you think Miu is seeking that, too?” I asked.
Sumire nodded. “I believe she is. Probably as much as I am.”
“Physical aspects included?”
“It’s hard to say. I can’t get a handle on it yet. What her feelings are, I mean. Which makes me feel lost and confused.”
“A classical conundrum,” I said.
In place of an answer, Sumire screwed up her lips again.
“But as far as you’re concerned,” I said, “you’re ready to go.”
Sumire nodded once, unequivocally. She couldn’t have been more serious. I sank back deep into my chair and clasped my hands behind my head.
