1 I was born on January 4, 1951, which is the first week of the first month of the first year in the second half of the 20th century.It's okay to say it's a memorable day.In this way, I have a name like "Chu".But other than that, there's very little to say about my birth.His father is an employee of a large securities company, and his mother is an ordinary housewife.My father was sent to Singapore for "apprenticeship" (Translator's Note: "Apprenticeship": specifically referring to the end of World War II when Japan ordered its students to enlist directly in the army.) was sent to Singapore, and was locked up there for a period of time after the war.Mother's house was bombed by B-29s in the last year of the war and reduced to ashes.They are a generation marred by a long war.

But when I was born, the so-called aftermath of the war was almost gone.There are no traces of war in the vicinity of the residence, and there are no traces of the occupying forces.We lived in a house provided by my father's company in this peaceful town.The house was pre-war built and older, but spacious enough.There are tall pine trees in the yard, small pools and stone lanterns. The town we live in is a very typical middle-class residence on the outskirts of a metropolis.During that period, the classmates who had some contacts, all of them lived in relatively neat and beautiful single-door households. Of course there were differences in size, but they all had gates, yards, and trees in the yards.Most of the fathers of the students work in the company and are professionals.Families with working mothers are very rare.Most people have cats and dogs.As for the people living in the dormitories or apartments, I didn't know any of them at the time.Although later moved to a neighboring town, but the situation is much the same.So, before I went to Tokyo to go to university, I always thought that most people wear ties to go to work in the company, live in single-family households with yards, and have cats and dogs.It was impossible to imagine—at least not with a sense of reality—what life would be like otherwise.

There are usually two or three children in each family.Two or three is the average number in the world I live in.I can picture a few friends from my boyhood and adolescence before my eyes, but none of them was a member of two or three brothers.If it's not two brothers, it's three brothers, if it's not three brothers, it's two brothers, it's just like a stereotype.Families with six or seven children are certainly rare, and families with only one child are even fewer. But I have no siblings and only myself.only son.When I was a teenager, I always had a little inferiority complex because of this, and felt that I was a special existence in this world, and I didn't have what others had with confidence.

When I was young, the phrase "only child" irritated me the most. Every time I heard it, I had to re-realize my own shortcomings.This sentence always pokes the fingertips straight at me: You are incomplete! The only child spoiled by parents, weak and sickly, extremely capricious—this is an unshakable conclusion in the world I live in, it is a law of nature, just as the air pressure decreases with the height of the mountain, and the milk yield of the cow increases.So I really don't want to be asked how many brothers I have.As long as one hears that there are no brothers and no brothers, people will think like this reflexively: This kid is an only child, he must be spoiled by his parents, weak and sick, and extremely willful.And this sameness of response annoys and irritates me quite a bit.But what really bored and irritated my teenage self was the fact that what they said was completely true.Yes, in fact I was also a spoiled, sickly, extremely capricious teenager.

In the school I attended, there were indeed very few children who had no siblings.I only met an only child in six years of elementary school, so I remember her (yes, a girl) very vividly.I became good friends with her, and we talked about everything, and it was okay to say that we were closely related.I even had a crush on her. Her surname is Shimamoto, and she is also an only child.Because he contracted polio shortly after birth, his left leg was a little lame, and he was a transfer student (Shimamoto’s class was near the end of fifth grade).In this way, it can be said that she is burdened with a lot—too great to compare with me—mental pressure.However, because of the extra pressure, she is much stronger and more self-disciplined than me, and she never complains or shows weakness in front of anyone.Not only verbally, but also on the face.Always have a smile on your face, even when things are unpleasant.It can even be said that the more unpleasant things are, the more she smiles.That smile is really wonderful, and I get a lot of comfort and encouragement from it. "It's okay," that smile seemed to say, "Don't be afraid, just bear with it and it will pass." For this reason, whenever I think of Shimamoto's face, I think of that smile.

Shimamoto has good academic performance and is generally fair and kind to others, so she is often looked up to in class.In this sense, although she is also an only child, she is very different from me.But if it is said that she is unconditionally liked by all her classmates, that is not necessarily the case.Although everyone does not bully her or make fun of her, but apart from me, she has no one who can be called a friend. Presumably, to them, she was too calm and self-disciplined, and some people might still see her as cold and arrogant.But I could sense a certain tenderness and vulnerability lurking in Shimamoto's exterior—a peek-a-boo child who hides in the depths but hopes to be seen sooner or later.Sometimes I can recognize such shadows in a blink of an eye from her words and expressions.Due to his father's work, Shimamoto did not know how many times he changed schools.I can't remember exactly what her father does.She did tell me at length, but like most kids around me, I'm not interested in other people's fathers' careers.Remember jobs of a professional nature in banking, taxation or corporate bankruptcy law.Although the house we moved to this time is also a company residence, it is a rather large bungalow surrounded by a rather impressive waist-high stone wall. The stone wall is connected with evergreen hedges. lawn.

Shimamoto was a tall, fine-looking girl about my height who was sure to turn out in a few years to be a very striking girl of absolute beauty.But when I met her, she hadn't acquired the looks to match her aptitude.At that time, she always seemed to be not harmonious enough in some places, so most people didn't think her appearance was very attractive.I guess it's because the part of her that's grown up doesn't develop in harmony with the part that's still a child, an imbalance that can be unsettling at times. Due to the close distance between the two families (her home is indeed very close to mine), she was arranged to sit next to me in the classroom for the first month.I explained to her the details of school life that she needed to know—textbooks, weekly tests, stationery for each class, course schedules, cleaning and lunch shifts, and so on.Firstly, it is the school’s basic policy that the student who lives closest to give the transfer student initial help, and secondly, because her legs are not good, the teacher asked me to take care of Shimamoto from a personal point of view. .

Just like the usual eleven or twelve-year-old children of the opposite sex who met for the first time, our conversations were always awkward and astringent in the first few days, but after learning that the other party was also an only child, the conversation between the two quickly became lively and harmonious.Whether it was for her or for me, it was the first time to meet an only child other than myself.In this way, we talked quite deeply about what happened to the only child, and there were a lot of things we wanted to say.As soon as they met—although not every day—the two walked home from school together, and they walked very slowly for this mile (she had bad legs and could only walk slowly), talking about this and that while walking.Between talking, we found that the two have quite a lot in common.We all like to read books, we all like to listen to music, and we all like cats best, but we are not good at expressing our feelings to others.There is a long list of foods that cannot be eaten, the subjects that I like are not uncomfortable at all, and the subjects that I hate are all hated.If there was a difference between me and her, it was that she made far more conscious efforts to protect herself than I did.She can work hard and get good grades in subjects she hates, but I'm not like that.She can bear to eat all the food she doesn't like when it is served, but I can't.In other words, the defense she built around herself was much higher and stronger than mine, but the things to protect were surprisingly similar.

I soon got used to being alone with her.That was a new experience.With her, I didn't have the restless feeling I get with other girls.I like to walk home with her.Shimamoto shuffled his left leg lightly, sometimes resting on a park bench along the way, but I never found it a hindrance and was happy to take the extra time. We just spend time together alone.I don't remember anyone around us taunting us for this.I didn't pay much attention to it at the time, but now that I think about it, it's a bit unbelievable.Because children of that age like to make fun of men and women who are close to each other.Probably because of Shimamoto's personality, I think.There was something about her that could cause mild tension in others, in short she had an air of "don't make silly jokes about this person".Even the teacher seemed nervous about her at times.It may also have something to do with her leg problem.Anyway, everyone seems to think it's inappropriate to make fun of Shimamoto, and that's what I could have wished for in the end.

Due to inflexible legs, Shimamoto hardly participated in gymnastics classes, did not come to school for outings or mountaineering, and did not show up for summer camp activities such as swimming.During the sports meeting, she always showed a bit of embarrassment.But apart from these occasions, she lived a very ordinary primary school life.She hardly ever mentioned her leg problems, not once as far as I can remember.Even when she came home from school with her, she never said anything like "I'm sorry for walking slowly", nor did she show it on her face.But I know very well that she cares about my legs, and I only avoid mentioning her mind.She doesn't like to go to other people's houses because she has to take off her shoes at the door.The shape and thickness of the soles of the left and right shoes are somewhat different - she doesn't want others to see it.About the kind of special order.The reason why I noticed it was because I found that the first thing she did when she arrived at her house was to put her shoes in the shoe box.

Shimamoto's living room has a new stereo system, and I often go to her house to listen to it.The sound system is quite impressive.However, her father's record collection is not as grand as the stereo. Well, and most of them are light classical music aimed at junior listeners, but I still listen to these fifteen records over and over again, and I can really remember them all in detail. Taking care of the records is Shimamoto's task.She took out the record from the jacket, put it on the record with both hands without letting her fingers touch the fine lines, brushed off the dust from the stylus with a small brush, and slowly placed it on the record.After the record is turned, vacuum it with a micro-vacuum cleaner, wipe it with a wool cloth, put it in the sheath, and put it back on the shelf.She meticulously carried out the series of homework her father taught her with an extremely focused expression, squinting her eyes and holding her breath.I always sit on the sofa and watch her every move intently.The record was put back on the shelf, and Shimamoto smiled at me as usual, and at that time I often thought that what she was taking care of was not the record, but the weak soul of someone in a glass bottle. I didn't have a turntable or records at home, and my parents weren't particularly musically enthusiastic, so I was always in my room, listening to music on the plastic AM radio.Most of what I hear on the radio is rock and roll.But I quickly fell in love with Shimamoto's light classical music.That's "another world" music.I'm attracted to it probably because Shimamoto belongs to that "other world".Once or twice a week, I sit on the sofa with her, drink the black tea brought by her mother, and send off an afternoon listening to Rossini's Overtures, Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony and Peer Gynt .Her mother welcomed me to play, partly because she was delighted that her daughter, who had just changed schools, had made friends, and partly because it seemed to her that I was well behaved and always neatly dressed.But frankly, I never seemed to like her mother.It’s not that there is any specific objectionable thing, although she has always been very kind to me, but I always feel that there is something similar to anxiety in the way she speaks, which makes me uneasy. My favorite piece of music in her father's collection is the Liszt Piano Concerto.The front is number 1 and the back is number 2.There are two reasons why I like to listen to it: one is that the record jacket is very beautiful, and the other is that no one around me has heard the Liszt Piano Concerto, except of course Shimamoto.This really excites me.I know the world that no one around me knows!It was as if I was the only one allowed to enter the secret garden.For me, listening to Liszt's piano concerto is undoubtedly pushing myself to a higher ladder in life. Moreover, it is beautiful music.At first it sounded cryptic, sleight-of-hand, and generally disjointed, but after a few listens, the music began to come together in my mind, just as blurry images gradually took shape. Whenever I close my eyes and concentrate, I can see some swirls in its melody.After a vortex is formed, another vortex is derived, and the other vortex is combined with other vortexes.Those swirls—only now, of course, to think of them—had an conceptual, abstract quality.I really want to try to explain the existence of such a vortex to Shimamoto, but it is not something that can be explained to others in ordinary language. To express it accurately, I must use a different language, and I don't know that language yet.Also, I don't know if what I feel so much is of any value in expressing it to others.Unfortunately, the name of the pianist who played the Liszt Concerto has been forgotten, all I remember is the colorful jacket and the weight of the record.The record is surprisingly heavy and thick. In addition to Western classical music, the Shimamoto family's record shelf is also filled with records by Nat "Kim" Cole (Translator's Note: Cole: African-American singer (1917-1965).) Peace Crosby.I can't stop listening to these two.Crosby's is a Christmas music record, and we don't sound like it's Christmas or not.Up to now, I still find it unbelievable: I never get tired of listening to it so much! One day in December, just before Christmas, Shimamoto and I sat on the couch in her living room and listened to records as usual.Her mother was away on errands, and there was no one else in the house except us.It was a cloudy, gloomy winter afternoon, and the sun seemed to be whittled to powder as it barely broke through the heavy, low-hanging clouds.Everything, as far as the eye could see, was dull and lifeless.At dusk, the room was as dark as a night.Remember not to turn on the light.Only the flames of the heating stove glowed redly on the walls. Nat "Kim" Cole singing "PRETEND."Of course I don't understand the English lyrics at all, it's just like a spell for us.But we love that song.After listening to it over and over again, the opening part can be sung like a parrot: Pretend you are happy when you're blue, It isn't very hard to do. Now the meaning is of course clear: "It is not so difficult to pretend to be happy when you are in pain."It's almost like the charming smile she always has on her face.This is indeed an idea, but sometimes it is very difficult to do. Shimamoto wore a crew-neck blue sweater.She has several blue sweaters.Maybe it's because she likes blue sweaters, or because blue sweaters are suitable for matching with the navy blue short coat she wears at school.The collar of the white shirt protrudes from the collar of the sweater, and underneath is a plaid skirt and white cotton socks.The soft texture of the close-fitting sweater told me of her small boobs.She lifted her legs up onto the couch and sat tucked under her hips.With one arm resting on the back of the sofa, he listened to the music with eyes like gazing at the distant scenery. "Well," she said, "I hear parents with only one child don't get on very well, but is it true?" I thought about it a little, but I couldn't figure out the cause and effect relationship. "Where did you hear that?" "A man told me, a long time ago, that he could only have one child because of a bad relationship. I was so sad when I heard it." "Where." I said. "How is your relationship with your parents?" I can't answer right away.Never thought about it. "My family, my mother's body is not very strong." I said, "I don't know very well. I heard that having a child is a heavy physical burden, so it can't be done." "I never thought how nice it would be to have a brother?" "No." "Why? Why didn't you think about it?" I picked up the record jacket on the coffee table and looked at it.But the room was too dark to read the words printed on the sleeve.I put the jacket back on the end table and rubbed my eyes with my wrist a few times.I have asked my mother the same question several times before, and each time my answer has neither made her happy nor sad.My mother just looked puzzled when she heard my answer, but it was, at least to me, a very frank and honest answer. My answer was long, but failed to convey exactly what I meant in an organized manner.In the final analysis, what I want to say is: "I have always grown up in an environment without brothers and brothers. If I have a brother, I should become a different me from now. So if I want to have a brother here, I think that's against nature." So it seemed to me that my mother's questions always seemed meaningless. I repeated my answer back then to Shimamoto in the same way.After repeating, Shimamoto stared fixedly at my face.There was something stirring in her expression.That thing - of course, this is only felt in retrospect - has a carnal flavor, as if it can gently peel off the film of the human heart layer by layer.To this day, I still clearly remember her thin lips that changed shape subtly with the change of expression, and the faint light that flickered in the depths of her eyes.The light reminded me of little candles flickering at the end of a long, narrow room. "I seem to understand what you said." She said in a calm voice that was quite popular. "real?" "Well." Shimamoto should say, "There are things in the world that can be redeemed and some cannot be redeemed, I think. Time is irreversible. At this point, it can no longer be redeemed. Is this the way you look at it? " I nod. "After a certain amount of time, a lot of things harden, like cement hardening in an iron bucket. Then we can never go back to the same place. You mean: you pile of cement It's completely hardened, and there's no other you than what you are now, is there?" "It's roughly like that." My tone was a little vague. Shimamoto stared at his hands for a moment. "For me, I often think about it, thinking about when I grew up and got married-what kind of house I lived in, what kind of work I did, how many children I had, this and that." "Ho." "You do not want?" I shake my head.It's impossible for a twelve-year-old to think about that. "So, how many children do you want, you?" She put the hand that had been resting on the back of the sofa on the lap of her skirt.I stared blankly at the finger slowly moving along the square of the skirt.There seems to be something mysterious there, and it looks as if a thin transparent thread is about to be pulled out from the fingertips to weave a new time.And as soon as he closed his eyes, a vortex emerged from the darkness.Several vortices are generated.It disappeared without a sound. "South of the Border" by Nat "Kim" Cole came from afar.Needless to say, Nat "Kim" Cole sang Mexico.But I couldn't understand it at the time, and I just felt that the sentence "south of the border" had a certain magical charm.Every time I listen to this song, I wonder what is there south of the border.Opening his eyes, Shimamoto was still moving his fingers along the skirt.I felt a sweet little pain passing through the depths of my body. "It's also really strange," she said, "I don't know why, but I can only imagine the scene of having a child. I have a child. I can roughly imagine that I am a mother and I have a child. But the child has a brother, but I can't imagine it." Good. The child has no brothers, only son." She is undoubtedly a precocious girl, and she undoubtedly has the good intentions of the opposite sex for me, and I also have the good feelings for her as the opposite sex. But I don't know what to do, and Shimamoto probably is the same.She shook my hand once—only once—in the way a guide would say, "Come this way, please."The handshake lasted only about ten seconds, but I felt it lasted thirty minutes. When she let go, I hoped she would continue to hold it.I could see that she actually wanted to shake my hand, even though it seemed natural when she took it. I still vividly remember the touch of her hand at that time.It was unlike any feeling I've ever known, nor any feeling I've known since.It was the warm, ordinary little hand of a twelve-year-old girl, but those five fingers and the palm contained everything I wanted to know and everything I needed to know at that time, just like a sample box.She conveyed this to me by holding hands, that places like that do exist in the real world.In those ten seconds, I felt like an omnipotent bird.I can fly in the sky, feel the wind, and see distant scenery from a high altitude.It's too far away to see exactly what's there, but I can feel it's there and I'll get there someday.It took my breath away and made my chest flutter. After returning home, I sat at the table in my room and stared at the hand that Shimamoto had held for a long time.Very glad she shook his hand.That tender touch warmed my heart for days, but it also confused, confused, and saddened me.How should I deal with that warmth?Where should I take that warmth?I don't know.After graduating from elementary school, she and I entered different middle schools.Due to various reasons, I left the house where I lived and moved to another town.Although it is another town, it is actually only two tram stops away. After that, I went to her house to play a few times.I remember going there three or four times in the three months since I moved away.But only so far, and soon I stopped looking for her.We were going through very delicate ages then.I feel that our world has completely changed just because of the difference between the middle schools and the distance between the two schools.Classmates have changed, school uniforms have changed, textbooks have changed, and my body shape, voice, and the way I feel about various things have also undergone drastic changes.The atmosphere of intimacy that once existed between me and Shimamoto seems to have gradually become awkward, or rather, her body and spirit are undergoing greater changes than mine, I think.This made me feel restless, and at the same time, I felt that the way her mother looked at me gradually became elusive, as if she was saying, "Why does this kid come to my house all the time, and he doesn't live nearby, and he doesn't go to the same school."It may also be neurotic.But no matter what, I always felt that there was something in her mother's line of sight. In this way, my footsteps gradually moved away from Shimamoto, and soon stopped communicating.But I'm afraid (probably the only word I can use. Because in the end it's not my job to examine this vast collection of memories of the past to determine what's true and what's not) was a mistake.I should have been closely connected with Shimamoto after that.I need her, and she needs me.Yet I was too self-conscious and too afraid of being hurt.Since then, and until a long time later, I have not seen her once. After not seeing Shimamoto, I often miss her too.Throughout the confusing and painful process of adolescence, that warm memory has given me encouragement and comfort many times.For a long time, I kept a special place in my heart for her.Like quietly erecting a "reserved table" sign on a quiet table in the back of the restaurant, I reserved that field for her alone, even though I presumed it was impossible to see her again. I was twelve years old when I met her, and I was not yet sexual in the proper sense.He is vaguely curious about the bulge of her breasts and the contents of the skirt, but he doesn't know what it means specifically, and he doesn't know where it will lead him.I just quietly describe what should be there with my ears and eyes closed.That is of course an incomplete landscape. Everything there is as blurred as clouds and mist, and the outlines are indistinct.But I could sense something important to me lurking in that landscape, and I knew: Shimamoto was looking at the same landscape. We must have all sensed that we are both incomplete beings, and that something new and acquired is about to come upon us to make up for this incompleteness.We were already standing in front of that new door, and under the dim light, the two of us held hands tightly for ten seconds, just ten seconds.