Words Paper-thin

I stand before a bookshelf, listening to the whispers. When a person says that they hear voices in their head, most would think them mad. And most of the time, I guess, the majority would be right. But I hear them, voices from objects inanimate but very much alive in that they can tell a story to just about anyone. But they speak, plain and clearly to me. I hear the voices of books.

“Why must you frequent the library during socials, Miu?” my mother asks. It is Father who caters to the large social events held in our manor.  If you ask me, Mother and I are mere figureheads, antiques or collectibles to be gawked at behind glass. “Look, don’t touch,” our elaborate clothes scream at our patrons. I just can’t tolerate the empty comments of people who don’t really care what I think or feel.

“Would you prefer that I give the dirty old goats and gossipy hens false smiles and absent nods, Mother? You know it doesn’t matter whether I’m amongst a crowd or not. I’m invisible to them, all the same.” I twiddle the thin diamond bracelet manacling my wrist, a perfect complement to my white dress, the sort a marriage-bound American girl would desperately covet, in my opinion. I can’t find comfort in Western clothes myself and would much rather be in kimono, but right now, during the Meiji era, Japan is consumed with staying modern by incorporating Western influences into our culture.

Mother sighs in exasperation, places a gloved hand on her brow. She’s getting one of her migraines. Like me, she’ll wind up suffering through her pain without a single complaint to Father. “These parties aren’t to make best friends in, dear,” she says, face still buried in hand. “Your father is the proprietor of a very prestigious company and he must flaunt his capabilities if he is to keep his position.”

I don’t know why she feels a need to remind me of such things. It’s not as if I could forget my own family’s obligations. Mother masks her pain and turns on a quick heel, leaving me with no more words. I’m expected to follow her out shortly, but before that . . .

My hands meet the warm spine of a book, so tender I’d expect to feel a pulse beneath it. I close my eyes, and listen.

No knowledge is gained without searching . . . Words die on deaf ears lest they are felt through emotion. Use wisdom wisely.

A book’s voice can seem random, completely irrelevant to its contents. Fairytales can spout very true history, and bibliographies frequently blurb fabrications. That’s the mystery of it all; along with the question of why I’m the one granted with such a beautiful ability, a girl so plain on the outside. I’ve looked for signs that others in my household and out might share this gift, but whether my parents, a housekeeper, or a guest, all pick up a book like a thrift trinket, flip furiously through the fragile pages, and replace it to browse another. Like me, the most marvelous of books is looked over and forgotten.

This one that has gained my attention, this book of guidance, appears to be older than any of its brethren. I gently un-tuck it from its resting spot and give it a sniff. If its yellowing pages weren’t a sign of its advanced age, the stale aroma it offers is a dead giveaway. Somehow dust has managed to cover the pages that I’ve opened up to. I stare at the clouded symbols for a moment then give the dust layer a blow.

The powdered covering takes off but, to my astonishment, so do the symbols. Kanji characters find their way to the floor, dissembling and reassembling into black scratches of nothing. Nothing like this has ever happened before, not in my wildest dreams. Distraught, I grab at the symbols, try to replace them where they belong. To my relief, the figures act as stickers and don’t fight adhesion. My fingers jitter as if I were in the middle of a heinous act or engaging in indecent behavior and I can’t help casting nervous glances over my shoulder to be sure that no one is entering the room. I don’t know why anyone would care for an old book in this house but it’s the bizarreness of it all that I can’t imagine another soul witnessing, just another odd act to paste on my dysfunctional being.

I work and work, not at all focusing on the sentences I’m creating, just attempting to fix what is broken. I didn’t get a good look at what the book read before I distorted it so there is no way that I could properly reconstruct it anyway. When I’m done, I’m surprised that the result is coherent, entirely readable and meaningful despite my rushed artistry. I study the new words that I’ve written and soon drop the book in response, seized by disbelief.

I’m not sure if it’s the tight clothes across my bosom or my own lungs constricting my air, but the only sound in my ears is my haggard breathing and my vision appears to be going, black decorating the fringes. As if in a dream, I pick up the book and search for the title. The front cover is but a bare burgundy leather skin, devoid of writing just as the spine, I remember. Tentatively, I flip to the first page. Five seconds of denial pass and then I’m flinging the book as if it has my hands on fire.

The title page reads: The Past, Present, and Future of Tachibana Miu.