Two stories by Aoko Matsuda,
translated by Polly Barton

English Composition No. 1

“Is that a power suit over there?”
“No, it isn’t.”

“Is that a power suit over there?”
“Yes, it is.”

“I see. So, is that also a power suit over there?”
“No, I’m sorry. That’s not a power suit. That’s just a normal suit.”
“Oh, really.”

“Was that a power suit, that the person who just walked past was wearing? I felt like I could sense its power.”
“No, that wasn’t a power suit. That was just a normal suit.”
“This is very difficult stuff. How does one tell the difference between power suits and normal suits?”
“That’s a good question. The commanding attitude of the wearer provides a good clue. Also, if a suit has shoulder pads, it’s more likely to be a power suit.”
“I see.”

“Is that a power suit over there?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I think I’m starting to understand.”
“Oh, really. I’m glad to hear that.”

“Is that also a power suit over there?”
“No, I’m sorry. That’s not a power suit.”
“Oh. In that case, maybe I don’t understand after all. Power suits are difficult.”

English Composition No. 2

“Is that Ophelia over there?”
“No, that’s the Lady of Shalott.”

“Is that Ophelia over there?”
“Yes, it is.”

“Was that person who just went floating by Ophelia?”
“No, that was the Lady of Shalott.”
“How do you tell the difference?”
“It’s easy. The Lady of Shalott is in a small boat.”
“I see. That’s easy to understand.”

“So this must be the Lady of Shalott?”
“No, this is Ophelia.”
“But she appears to be in a small boat.”
“I’m sorry, that was not a boat, but bits of rubbish. They must have gathered around her as she traveled downstream.”
“Oh really.”
“Look, there by her feet. You can make out a plastic bottle.”
“Yes, you’re right.”

“Is that Ophelia over there?”
“No, that is a homeless person who drowned.”
“Hmm, this really is rather difficult stuff.”

English Composition No. 3

Do you know Ken? Yes, I know Ken. Where is Ken from? Ken comes from Japan. Is Ken tall? Yes, Ken is very tall. Is Ken handsome? Yes, Ken is very handsome. Is Ken wearing trousers? Yes, Ken is wearing trousers. Is Ken wearing a cap? Yes, Ken is wearing a cap. What is Ken’s hobby? Ken likes pop music. That is his hobby. Please tell me what kind of pop music Ken likes. Oh, you would do better to ask Ken himself. Where is Ken? Ken is three blocks away. You cross the street at the lights, and it’s on your right. Does Ken like you? Oh yes, Ken likes me very much. Do you like Ken? Oh yes, I like Ken very much. Do you like the pop music that Ken likes? Oh yes, I like the pop music that Ken likes very much. Is the pop music that Ken likes well known? Yes, the pop music that Ken likes is very well known. Does Ken know that the pop music he likes is well known? Yes, Ken knows that the pop music he likes is well known. Do you know that the pop music that Ken likes is well known? Yes, I know that the pop music that Ken likes is well known. That’s good to hear. However, John doesn’t like the pop music that Ken likes. Who is John? I don’t know. Where is Ken now? Ken is at the zoo now. The zoo is three blocks away. You cross the street at the lights, and then it’s on your right. On your right, not on your left. The lights are now red. The sky is blue. What is Ken doing? Ken is looking at the penguins. What is Ken thinking? He is thinking, Don’t die! Everything else can die, but please, not the penguins! Does Ken like penguins? Oh yes, Ken likes penguins very much. Does Ken like pop music and penguins? Yes, Ken likes pop music and penguins very much.

Hawaii

The sweater that hadn’t been worn for three years was sipping a glass of tropical fruit juice by the poolside. The glass was so large that, in order to lift it, the sweater had to cradle it with both arms, where the wool had begun to pill. In addition to a straw, the drink had some kind of exotic flower and a brightly colored cocktail umbrella poking up from the rim, so even just looking at it encouraged a holiday spirit. Every now and again, though, the sweater would mistake one of these other things for the straw and come close to sucking on it. When the sweater had first arrived here, it was so enchanted by the little cocktail umbrellas that it had rescued each and every one and carried them back to its hotel room, but, inevitably enough, that phase had passed.

From its suite on the top floor of the luxury hotel, the sweater that hadn’t been worn for three years could look out over the great expanse of emerald-green sea. It was there that every morning, stretched out on the crisp white sheets of the enormous bed and gazing up at the sky through the window, the sweater ate its room service breakfast—eggs Benedict, yolks oozing out onto the gleaming white plate, washed down with freshly squeezed orange juice, and a café au lait to finish. The room was kept at exactly the right temperature, making it a most pleasant place to while away the time. In the pool, the floral-print dress bought on sale but never worn and the white shirt owned in quintuplicate were floating together ona giant inflatable killer whale, chatting animatedly as they trailed their sleeves in the glinting water. In the lazy river a little way off, the long patchwork skirt that no longer fit its owner’s lifestyle was lying atop a float. It had mentioneda little while back how it wanted to brush up on its swimming.

No sooner had the sweater that hadn’t been worn for three years drained the last of its tropical fruit juice with a loud slurp than a fresh one was brought over on a tray, boasting a different colored exotic flower and cocktail umbrella than before. Wasting no time, the sweater that hadn’t been worn for three years picked up the new drink and took a sip. It was almost too delicious to be real. How many different kinds of tropical fruit juice did they have in this place? Since its arrival,the sweater had drunk at least one each day but had never been served the same kind of juice twice. “Ahhh, this place is utter paradise!” the sweater that hadn’t been worn for three years said with a contented sigh.
It was speaking the truth. The place really was paradise.

“What kind of paradise would you prefer?”

The sweater that hadn’t been worn for three years remembered how stumped it had felt when the angel first posed the question. It had never given the matter a thought. The handbag whose design was now so outdated and the CD that you could always just buy again in the unlikely event you ever felt like listening to it looked equally at a loss for words. The three of them shot worried glances at one another.

Perhaps this was a common reaction, for the angel seemed to immediately grasp their bewilderment and set about explaining the decision facing them in a voice as light and airy as meringue.

“You can choose whatever kind of paradise you like. No need to feel shy about just speaking up and telling us exactly the kind of place you’d like to spend your time. Of course, if you get a bit tired of a particular heaven, you’re free to switch at any point. Some even choose to spend their time in a different paradise every day. The choice is entirely yours. Our priority is for you to feel safe and happy after undergoing such cruel treatment. We have a catalogue here showcasing the options, for your reference.”

The angel opened up the thick catalogue that had materialized out of the blue right in front of them.
Sure enough, the range of paradises available was truly extraordinary. There was a skiing paradise that was all slopes and snowy mountains and a paradise set in the middle of the jungle. There was a paradise for those who loved picnicking amid the cherry blossoms, a paradise modeled on an amusement park, and paradises with themes like Around the World in Eighty Days and Lord of the Rings. For those who preferred a more classical model, complete with winged cherubs holding bows and arrows and frolicking atop marshmallow clouds, that option was also up for grabs. “You’d be surprised how many end up going for this one in the end,” said the angel with blonde ringlets, giving them an earnest look.

“I’ll go for this,” said the CD you could always just buy again in the unlikely event you ever felt like listening to it, pointing with an indifferent air at the Northern Lights paradise on the page opened before them. The sweater that hadn’t been worn for three years found itself wondering whether the CD wouldn’t find it a little tiresome, given the similarities between the aurora borealis in the picture and the CD’s own reflective surface. Of course, it wasn’t really any of its business to be worrying about such things, but that didn’t stop the sweater that hadn’t been worn in three years from feeling a pang of disappointment on the CD’s behalf.

“I’ll take this one,” piped up the handbag whose design was now so outdated, pointing at a Disneyland-themed paradise that was permanently in Halloween Party mode.

“Oh yes, that comes particularly highly recommended,” smiled the angel, before turning her gaze on the sweater that hadn’t been worn for three years.

And before the sweater knew what was what, it found itself uttering the word “Hawaii.”

Hawaii—the place that the girl who hadn’t worn the sweater for three years had always yearned to visit, her number-one dream destination.

Back when the girl still wore the sweater that hadn’t been worn for three years, she would often devour magazines that featured Hawaii with hungry eyes, taking in every detail. The sky and the sea. Stacks of pancakes so high that a person had no hope of finishing them alone. Shopping malls lined with designer shops. The lip creams and chocolates you could buy at the local supermarkets and take home as presents for friends. Organic cosmetics that weren’t available in shops in Japan. When the girl’s chest throbbed with excitement at the sight of these things, the sweater that hadn’t been worn for three years could feel it too.

Then, with the same degree of obsessive passion, the girl threw herself into decluttering. She began mercilessly throwing away the things around her flat.

It was evident immediately that something was up. The girl would roam around her flat with a look of intense focus, darting glances in all directions like a dictator determined to drag each and every one of his citizens from their hiding places. The mugs of which she owned more than ten. The stylish paperbacks in English she’d only ever flicked through. The music box she’d treasured since she was a child. The shoes she hadn’t worn for two years. The folding umbrellas, of which she had three. The little trinkets and ornaments that lacked any coherent purpose. Nothing, but nothing, escaped the girl’s razor-sharp gaze.

The leather jacket she’d bought because it was the kind of thing her ex was into. The shocking-pink miniskirt she had no idea why she owned. The socks and the tights of which she owned over thirty pairs. The T-shirt whose collar had stretched with age. The girl opened the closet and inspected each item of clothing with a grave expression.Can I live without this? Is it high time I got rid of this? Do I really need this in my life? The look in her eyes as these questions went reeling through her head was petrifying.

As objects vanished from the flat one after the other and the rooms began to grow ever more bare, the sweater that hadn’t been worn for three years had a dim sense that it was destined to meet the same fate as the others. After all, it had been three years. And lo and behold, such a thing came to pass.

“I’d like to go to Hawaii,” the sweater said, in a tone more certain than before.

“As you wish,” smiled the angel.

And yes, the Hawaii where the sweater that hadn’t been worn for three years was sent may have been a Hawaii-themed paradise exclusively for objects purged in the name of decluttering, but it was still great. The sweater liked it very much indeed. Although it should perhaps be mentioned that thus far the sweater had ventured no farther than the poolside. Tomorrow, it would tell itself most days, tomorrow I really will get out and see a bit of the island. But in the end, lying by the poolside drinking tropical fruit juices generated such a deep sense of satisfaction that the sweater kept putting off any excursions. Tomorrow it really would get out and about a bit. It wanted tocheck outDiamond Head, see what that had in store. The sweater that hadn’t been worn for three years wondered if its former owner ever did make it to Hawaii—if all that decluttering had somehow freed her up to go.

A towering stack of pancakes topped with a mountain of whipped cream appeared beside the deckchair where the sweater that hadn’t been worn for three years was sitting. The sweater took a bite, and the sweetness of the maple syrup scored a direct hit to its brain. Reeling with contentment, the sweater gazed up at the sky. Up there, not far from the rainbow, the pair of skinny jeans owned in three similar shades was paragliding together with the dress worn once to a friend’s wedding and never again.

Translator: Polly Barton

Polly Barton (b. 1984) is a translator of Japanese literature and nonfiction, based in the UK. Recent translations include Spring Garden by Tomoka Shibasaki (Pushkin Press, 2017), Where the Wild Ladies Are by Aoko Matsuda (Tilted Axis / Soft Skull Press, 2020), There’s No Such Thing as an Easy Job by Kikuko Tsumura (Bloomsbury, 2021), and So We Look to the Sky by Misumi Kubo (Arcade, 2021). After being awarded the 2019 Fitzcarraldo Editions Essay Prize, in 2021 she published Fifty Sounds, her reflections on the Japanese language. Her translations of stories by Aoko Matsuda and Tomoka Shibasaki appear in vols. 1–3 of MONKEY, and her translations of stories by Kikuko Tsumura appear in vols. 2 and 3.

Author: Aoko Matsuda

Aoko Matsuda (b. 1979) is a writer and translator. In 2013 her debut Stackable was nominated for the Mishima Yukio Prize and the Noma Literary New Face Prize. In 2019 her short story “The Woman Dies” (from the collection The Year of No Wild Flowers), translated by Polly Barton and published by Granta online, was shortlisted for a Shirley Jackson Award. Her short novel The Girl Who Is Getting Married was published by Strangers Press in 2016. She has translated work by Karen Russell, Amelia Gray, and Carmen Maria Machado into Japanese. Her stories appear in vols. 5–7 of Monkey Business, translated by Jeffrey Angles. “Dissecting Misogyny,” “The Most Boring Red on Earth,” and “A Father and His Back,” translated by Polly Barton, are featured in vols. 1–3 of MONKEY.

More stories by Aoko Matsuda