Canon's Diary

On Wednesday, a fine rain had been falling over Tokyo since morning. The sky was covered with gray clouds. When the wind turned east, tiny raindrops hit the window in front of my desk. Amid the drizzle, a lone crow flew past. Its wings were slightly spread, but it didn’t flap them—perhaps it was simply riding the wind. Its face seemed to be either gazing intently at the ground or turning away from the falling rain. Mixed in with the sound of rain was the distant roar of a jet, though the aircraft itself was hidden behind the clouds.

I was working remotely from my room in Tokyo. I’d heard that the kickoff of a new project originally scheduled before Golden Week might be delayed. Using the information I had, I reviewed the project details and compiled them into a management sheet. The room was still a bit messy with PC cables, accessories, and tennis gear, so I tidied up a little. It’s a 7.5-tatami-mat room, but it feels cramped due to the semi-double mattress I brought from my new house in Yamanashi, along with a large wood-grain desk for remote work topped with a computer monitor. The desk faces a westward window, and there are large windows on the west and south sides.

When I turned around, I saw an old classical guitar sitting there. Peering inside through the sound hole, I found the following inscription in brush-ink:

“Made for Mr. Hideo Kazane — 1964, Noboru Nakayama.”

Hideo Kazane was my father. Searching the name Noboru Nakayama online, I learned that he was a craftsman who supported the Nakasaka workshop and later established his own workshop in Saitama Prefecture in the late 1960s. I received this 60-year-old guitar from my father a few years ago.

My father, Hideo, was always late coming home from work and barely spoke even when he was home. On his days off, he often went golfing. But whenever he was at home, without fail, he played that guitar. As a child, I spent more time listening to the sound of the guitar than hearing my father’s voice. He would always play the same piece—“Romance,” the hauntingly beautiful melody often associated with the film Forbidden Games. Because he was always strumming that guitar, relatives jokingly referred to him as “Buzz-Buzz Uncle.” I have almost no memory of actually speaking with him.

When I entered junior high, I joined the soccer club. My junior high school was located about 400 meters south of my elementary school, right next to Komazawa Olympic Park. It was Meguro Ward’s Dairo Junior High School. It was a sensitive and turbulent time in adolescence, and there were many rough students—some smoked, others even drank before coming to school. I shrank back in fear, kept to myself, and wasn’t particularly noticeable, though I don’t think I was excessively bullied either. It was around the time Gundam plastic models were popular.

I believe it was around this time that I began feeling a tightness in my chest every day. I didn’t understand why it hurt so much back then, but now I think it was because I was suppressing my sense of self too much. Soccer club was terrible. Although I was used to handling the ball, I had no concept of teamwork, so my teammates often gave me disapproving looks. During practice, their treatment of me was harsh. They would deliberately kick at my legs. Sometimes I would fall hard and suffer serious injuries. Yet strangely, I never felt angry. I would pretend to be calm, saying, “I’m fine,” even while bleeding.

I think my emotions were also being suppressed by what my mother had taught me: a spirit of compassion. A devout woman, she always told me to forgive everything others did, never to blame them, and to pray when something happened. So I would convince myself, “These guys are just pitiful,” and leave it at that. Looking back, it doesn’t make much sense. I was probably angering people because I couldn’t understand teamwork. I had no grasp of others’ feelings. In hindsight, it’s clear I was completely in the wrong. But back then, I couldn’t understand that. I was pushed, knocked over many times. I was often grabbed by the collar and got into scuffles. I consulted my mother, but she scolded me for not praying enough and simply told me to apologize and say sorry. But prayer alone cannot help one survive in society. Unable to deal with it in any way and unable to express my anger, I think I accumulated something like poison within me.

Even so, my body, which had been trained through soccer since elementary school, suddenly grew larger and stronger around my second year of junior high. I gained enough strength to push back when getting into scuffles, and gradually, the delinquents who had been bothering me disappeared. Soccer was probably my only means of self-expression. Instead of using words to express my feelings, I kicked the ball. Rather than being a striker charging toward the opponent’s goal, I felt more at home as a defender, swiftly stealing the ball from the opposition.

I couldn’t concentrate in class, and my grades dropped significantly, so my parents hurriedly enrolled me in a cram school. Classes started at 9 PM, but for some reason, I enjoyed them. Probably taught by college students working part-time, the instructors had a humorous and memorable way of speaking that kept me engaged. Thanks to that, my grades began to recover around the end of my second year.

I have no memory of speaking with my father during junior high. I tried hard to recall, but aside from the sound of “Romance,” I remembered nothing at all. Perhaps many families were like that back then. Since inheriting this guitar, I’ve been practicing a bit, though I can still only play simple chords. Yet somehow, I’ve found I can play the melody of “Romance” to some extent, even though no one ever taught me how.