“The one you are waiting for: will not come.”
I read the fortune over and over. I am not superstitious. I am not waiting for anyone. And still, I’m crying on the shinkansen, clutching a ceramic fox in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other.
Kitsune – a fox. Omikuji – a fortune.
An unexplored world rattles along outside, the stretch of trees and mountains between Kyoto and Amanohashidate blurred twofold by speed and tears.
Number 48 – Luck.
Nothing will come easy. There will be many hardships.
My conflicts will get worse.
My lost item will not be found.
It is too early for me to build.
I’ll gain no merit in travelling.
I’ll see no developments in love.
The one you are waiting for: will not come.
I go to Kyoto. I go to Tokyo. I go out.
“Next time you get a nasty fortune, you can just tie it to a tree or something,” a sagely teacher advises, “to get rid of it.”
Our group sits huddled in the centre of the izakaya, a communion of cold wet clothes under warm yellow lights.
“There’s usually a designated area for it. You’ll see heaps of other papers tied there.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that a bad fortune could be dispelled.
A young waitress delivers a plate to our table and takes another order of drinks. She has a rook and a helix in her ear, like me.
Shochu, nihonshu, umeshu.
Plum liqueur for me. Someone orders a sweet-potato hard liquor and offers me a sip. It’s strong and tastes like sweet potato, and somehow I’m surprised.
Our Japanese hosts are generous and excited. On account of young children and busy husbands, nights out are few and far between; they all work full-time. It’s hard work, being loved.
We eat raw wasabi-octopus, and two parts of heart on a stick. Shark cartilage in sour plum, chicken cartilage in salt. Sweet stingray. Liver is a blood-flavoured oil pastel.
Horumonyaki – skewered innards. Takoyaki – my favourite.
Conversation is a scramble crossing, with a vector at every angle. I want to listen to everything, and everything is discussed.
Someone is dismayed at the state of fertility – women are convinced (fearmongered) into freezing their eggs when they may not even need it. Her friend was urged (strongarmed) to freeze hers, and fell pregnant accidentally not long after. Someone strictly dates blood type O, as she herself is type A. Someone is asking me a question.
“I noticed,” I say, “that a lot of the women in Tokyo wear glittery eyeshadow every day. It’s not so common back in Melbourne.”
I noticed that men do not make room for us on the sidewalk, in the train station.
“Yes, the glitter! Do you always wear it?” asks the sage.
I don’t – I bought it on my second day in Japan and spread it across my eyelids. A signal to all who looked: I can be trusted to adhere to your expectations. I will try not to be a nuisance. I won’t take up room on the sidewalk.
It’s still raining outside as we leave, stalling to say our millionth and trillionth goodbyes – no, you hang up. I’m aiming for chivalry but land closer to trenchfoot as I escort our troops to the taxi. Our cheeks are as pink as pickled plums. Yopparai.
Nana, the mother of our guesthouse, smiles at us and tells us how she’s happy. It’s so nice, just to have drinks with fellow women.
At the guesthouse on Girls’ Night, we’re delirious and far from sleepy. Drinks have been drunk, McTeriyakis have been eaten. It’s a congregation of three at the kotatsu, and the heater’s on. All of this can only mean one thing: it’s time for a tarot reading.
Our mystic shuffles and splits the deck, fingers protruding from fuzzy crocheted gloves. Each card is adorned with a coloured illustration and assigned a fleck of folklore.
On her request, I imbue them with my energy by hovering my hands and thinking of a question. I imagine archetypes the deck might reveal – a damsel in duress, another victim of early-onset-spinster syndrome.
I’m not superstitious.
The Loch Ness monster – illusion.
We huddle around a phone screen, the modern gal’s crystal ball, scrying for meaning.
“She looks kind of lonely,” the mystic says, her eyes on Nessie’s glum visage. “But there’s a glowing figure in the background.”
The next card is some sort of medieval torture scene involving a wheel, two henchmen, and (crucially) a victim.
“Do you think that’s good?” I jokingly ask, knowing full well.
She says something about suffering, but something about learning too. There might be a trial – or maybe a tribulation – but it will reveal a truth to me.
She draws another card.
“What I’m seeing is something beginning with great passion, interrupted by a vicious cycle, and maybe it all ends in disillusionment.” She frowns, glancing cautiously at me.
If I were a tarot reader, I would be quite frightened to tell people things they don’t want to hear.
“Is this a love reading?” she asks.
It’s not.
I go to Enoshima. I go to Hakuba. I go home.
At every shrine I visit, I look out on a sea of wishes. Ema. The small wooden plaques hang in stacks from an emagake, bids for attention from the Shinto gods. Everyone is asking for the same thing:
I am hoping that a special someone is just around the corner.
I am hoping that my brother gets well.
I am hoping to be happy and healthy.
I am hoping to pass my exam.
I am hoping to be loved.
My conflicts will get worse, it said.
My lost item will not be found.
It is too early for me to build.
I’ll gain no merit in travelling.
I’ll see no developments in love.
But then a lost item is returned to me by a friend at my guesthouse, who stayed an extra day in Hakuba and retrieved my left-behind makeup bag. I’m reunited with my glitter and rescued from my own bare face.
The one you are waiting for: will not come.
Wherever I go, someone will take care of me.
