This has a wonderful kind of prologue, which I read again and again as I was reading this slim book. The author, as character, when he was a mere promising one, was asked by a friend to write a poem for a hunting magazine. The author was no hunter, but he appreciated the gesture. So he wrote a two paragraph prose poem. I thought it very good, but even the author doubted the subscribing hunters would appreciate it. It told about the author hiking on a mountain and crossing another man, with a double barrel shotgun resting on his shoulder. There was something about the man that made the author feel the hunter was not on the mountain, but rather on a desolate, dried-up riverbed.
The poem was ignored by the subscribers. But then the author received a letter from a man who would be the hunter. It was him, surely. I have three letters, the hunter wrote. I am sending them separately.
The first letter is from his niece, who has unraveled things. The second is from the hunter's wife, who also unraveled things. The third, posthumously, is from the niece's mom, who was the hunter's lover.
I hope to carefully tread any more plot than I already have. And I'll skip the niece's letter. The wife's letter, Midori's, was more poignant. She had her flings too. But it was she who would say goodbye:
How extraordinarily difficult it is to write a goodbye letter. It is unpleasant to get all weepy, but it is also unpleasant to be overly brisk. I would like for us to make a clean break and to go our separate ways without hurting each other, but a peculiar sort of posturing seems to have found the way into my prose. Perhaps there is no helping it: a goodbye letter is what it is, and it will not be a thing of beauty, no matter who the author is. I suppose I might as well write in a cold and prickly style appropriate to the content. Forgive me, then, for returning your enduring coldness by writing the sort of unabashedly disagreeable letter that will make you turn still colder.
Shiver.
The lover, who writes the third letter, is dying, and thus has a special perspective. She remembers one night, at a hotel. The hunter opened the storm shutters.
When you pushed it open around midnight . . . there was a fishing boat far out at sea that had caught fire and was burning high, bright red, like a cresset. People might be dying out there, we could see that, and yet the horror of it didn't touch us . . . I felt as if I had glimpsed, in that boat blazing on the water, unbeknownst to anyone, the fate of our hopeless love. Even as I write this, that scene, those flames bright enough to overcome the darkness, rise up before me. What I saw on the ocean that night was without a doubt a figure, the perfect figure, of the distress, the fleeting, this-worldly writhing that is a woman's life.
So, a young woman's discovery, a wife's calculus, a lover's fate . . . and a man hiking, alone, on what must be a dried riverbed.