Kazushi Hosaka

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A nameless, ambitionless office worker finds his small apartment gradually invaded by three other people: all younger than himself, but seemingly no less adrift. The year is 1986, and the strange communal life of this foursome, extending over half a year, from the end of winter to midsummer, makes up the plot, such as it is, of Plainsong, as this ersatz family finds itself growing closer, and life continues—quietly—around them. Part of the generation that grew to prominence following the success of baby boomers like Haruki Murakami, Kazushi Hosaka's work chronicles the small moments, the moments without conflict, that most novels work to elide. His characters talk, work, exist; their story is one where the tiniest occurrence takes on the proportions of a grand drama.

 

My girlfriend and I had just made the decision to move in together when one day I happened to be in Nakamurabashi on the Seibu Ikebukuro Line for work. I stepped into a real estate office in front of the station and before I knew it I'd agreed to take an apartment they showed me nearby. Then the girl dumped me just before the big day and I ended up moving in by myself.

With two bedrooms as well as a living room, dining room, and kitchen, the apartment was much larger than anywhere I’d lived before. The rent was larger too. For a while I wondered where the extra thirty-five thousand yen was going to come from every month, but it turned out not to be a problem. In fact, I found that I was no longer relying on the loans I’d taken out pretty much constantly in the past, and the balance on my credit card finally started to go down instead of up. The explanation for this strange state of affairs is that I was still suffering the aftereffects of the breakup. No matter who I spent time with (in other words, no matter who I went drinking with), I found boredom creeping over me almost immediately. What am I doing here? I want to spend my time with this person? These thoughts nagged at me and soured my mood, and within an hour or so of going out I was standing up to make my excuses and head back home. The money I was saving as a result—thanks to a shrinking bar tab and no money spent on late-night taxis home—more than made up for the extra rent.

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