Short Story: A Landscape with a Merry-Go-Round

I once stayed in an apartment where I could see a merry-go-round from my window. It was in a small town called W, at the easternmost tip of Italy. That was where I met a novelist.

The merry-go-round belonged to a traveling carnival that only came during the summer.
It had a crown-like roof painted in cream and red, and from my apartment room, I could see the children riding the wooden unicorns, accompanied by the dull, clattering sound of the ride spinning.
At night, I could feel the allure of the dim incandescent bulbs and the sweet scent of the stalls, and the scene at that moment, along with the occasional cheers I heard, was burned into my heart as a vivid, cinematic memory.

Living a rootless life while photographing various parts of Europe, I was used to strange customs that would be unthinkable in Japan, but this was the first time I could see an amusement park from my window.

Windows often lacked curtains, and even if there were shutters or blinds, they were left open during the day, leaving the rooms fully visible even during siestas. The people in this town didn't care how they were seen by others and made no attempt to hide themselves.
The local habit of not taking an interest in other people's lives was strangely comfortable for me, someone who likes people but is bad at human relationships.

There was a courtyard in the middle of the U-shaped building, and I could see the room directly opposite mine quite clearly. A man seemed to live alone in that room, which was decorated with red geraniums on the windowsill, and a dining table, a single chair, and a stack of papers and a pen were neatly arranged.
On the wall inside the room hung a large, enlarged black-and-white photograph, which had always intrigued me. I didn't know who was in it. It was a portrait of a child, enlarged to the size of a poster.

When I opened the window, I would unconsciously focus on that portrait. It was a boy with beautiful features. His expression was memorable—he wasn't used to being photographed and was glaring at the lens with a slightly sulky look.
He was surely a white child. Because it was black and white, his light-colored hair and eyes appeared whitish, and I could see the smooth, pale gradation of his skin.
In the morning, when I lowered the rotating lever to open the window, the boy who jumped into my view from the room directly opposite exuded a somewhat sorrowful atmosphere.

One day, I went out to photograph the traveling carnival.
In the morning, there were no crowds, and the cream-colored roof looked terribly faded up close. The rusty unicorn rides here and there were so outdated that I doubted they were even functional.
Just as I held up my camera and placed my finger on the shutter button, someone called out to me from behind.

“We meet often, don't we?”

It was the resident from directly opposite.
Although I had seen inside his room through the window, this was the first time we had actually met. The man, who looked to be approaching old age, wore a linen jacket and a summer hat, and slung across his body was a large canvas bag that seemed ill-suited to his elegant appearance.

“Are you here on vacation?”

The man asked me in a friendly tone.

“No, it's for work. I'm taking photos for a travel magazine.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“Yes. And you?”

The man then turned his gaze toward the merry-go-round looming in the background.

“I write novels. I used to live in Rome, but I moved here because the countryside is more relaxed and the air is better. When I spend my time peacefully, ideas come to me one after another.”

This land, where painters are said to have moved in the latter half of the 20th century in search of light, had become a place where those who succeeded in the city owned vacation homes or spent their summers. Was he one of them?

“That sounds elegant.”

“Yes, thanks to that, my writing is progressing well.”
“However, lately, things have been quite precarious. Actually, there is someone who is publishing novels exactly the same as what I write. The story and even the personalities of the characters are the same. Don't you think that's terrible?”

His smooth tone sounded as if he had repeated this story to someone many times. I nodded. Although I really wanted to ask about that photograph, I listened in silence.

“Just the other day, he even had the audacity to answer an interview in the newspaper. He said, ‘I was drinking beer while looking at the sea, and suddenly, a new story was born.’ It was my work!”

He clicked his tongue briefly. His gaze remained fixed on the merry-go-round, and I couldn't see what kind of expression he was wearing.

“It's a truly ridiculous story. Even if he does such a thing, he can't hijack my life.”

The novelist gripped his canvas bag tightly. It looked well-worn, with the fabric frayed and darkened in places.

“That is why I carry it with me everywhere I go.”

“Huh?”

“The manuscript.”

“Always?”

“Yes. I will show it to you someday.”

When the man finally turned to face me, the shoulder of his jacket was twitching.

“A novel is like a collection of memories related to a specific person. Therefore, it is impossible to erase that individual's memories.
Even though memories are one's own, they cannot be controlled by one's own will, nor can they be sorted and thrown out as trash.

In other words, even if someone steals my novel, I will not lose those memories.
Well, they are just peeking into someone's life, imagining things on their own, and pretending to understand. It's truly troublesome.”

The man spoke all at once and handed me a business card. Then, moving a little away from me, he held his summer hat in one hand, gave a theatrical bow, and said, "Well then, good day," before leaving. He looked like a king greeting his subjects on stage.

A few days later, it was a night when I was organizing photo data until late. For a change, the light was on in the room directly opposite mine, and I could see the novelist sitting in the orange glow, his back slumped in a slovenly way. I was startled. His appearance was clearly different, and the dining table was cluttered with empty liquor bottles and scraps of paper.

I had a bad feeling and tried to look away immediately, but I couldn't resist.
The man muttered something as if speaking to the photograph of the boy on the wall, and eventually began to cry out loud.

Sobbing, the man fell to his knees on the floor. He placed his palm on the nape of the boy in the photo and brought his lips close. The boy's neck and the man's lips were pressed together. There was no gap anywhere. The man's hand touched the boy's smooth cheek, stroking his soft silver hair, while his other hand was placed on his shoulder. It was a delicate movement, as if touching a small living creature.

The sensation of his wrinkled hands, his breathing, and his violently beating heart seemed as if they could be heard all the way over here, across the courtyard.
The man pressed himself tightly against the photograph on the wall, wet with drool and tears, and it even looked as if he himself were being buried into the wall's photograph.

I thought: the man is afraid of something and wants the boy to hold him. The sound of him sobbing like a child reached me. It was a moonless, dense night.

The man as a novelist did not seem to be a success by any means.
Searching the internet using his business card, I saw his history: he had won a certain prize and published only one book, after which he was rarely talked about.

I ordered his book and read it.
It was a strange novel. It was a story about a man who becomes obsessed with a beautiful boy.
At one point, the man meets a beautiful boy at a summer resort. The man spends a happy summer with the boy, but upon learning that the boy is being searched for as a missing person, he flees. The boy returns safely to his family, and there were no charges filed. The man moves to another town and continues to search for the boy repeatedly. That was the story.

During the summer, while gazing at the novelist's portrait on the wall, I went around taking snapshots of the town and doing my work.
The geraniums were withering, and the boy's poster was rippled only where it had been wet with the man's tears.

At night, I would lick whiskey from a glass, and while lying in bed, I would open the usual image on my smartphone. My eyes met those of my son, whom I had photographed when he was three, through the screen. If he were alive, he would be seven.
Is it strange to say "would be"? No, it's fine if it's strange. My son, who continues to live on in my memory, kept his eyes, which always seemed mischievous, fixed straight ahead.

Eventually, summer ended, and the traveling carnival closed its curtains and departed for another land.
While surprised that the merry-go-round had vanished from the scenery so easily, I stood by the window. I felt as if I had caught a glimpse of myself, fearing that something might abruptly disappear from the empty landscape.

At that moment, the fact that I would never experience my son playing on playground equipment or hugging his rose-colored cheeks that smelled of sweet ice cream rose from within me like a wave and pierced my chest.
The way I was living, drifting along without being able to accept that cruelty at all, felt as if it were being unsparingly illuminated by the sunlight, and it became unbearable, so I closed my eyes.

The next morning, noticing that the photograph had been removed from the novelist's wall, I visited the landlord.
The landlord told me he had moved out suddenly and handed me a dirty canvas bag that he said had been left for me.
The contents were just filled with manuscript paper painted completely black.

(The End)