Dear Michiru,

I hope this letter reaches you. I wanted to apologise. That sounds so business-like. What I really mean is that I wanted to write something to better explain myself. It's just that I've been going over it and I'm not sure that there is an entirely decent explanation. You were (are?) leaving – or maybe you've left – anyway, it's the right thing to do. Rather, it's the kind of thing you should do. The kind of thing I should want and I was too thrown, I guess, to react the right way when I found out about it. That way. That day. Bad timing.

I've heard you play – it's entirely the right thing for you. This would be a sadder place without your music. I couldn't stand in the way of that. I just knew – at the time – that I probably would have. I would've made you feel like you shouldn't go. I felt so furious. I don't anymore. I'm so sorry. Really.

I'm in Osaka now. My father is sponsoring me to compete, for the first year at least. Then I'll need to be mainly covered by external sponsorship. Tyres are expensive; engines more so. He says I'll need other sponsors if I want some kind of credibility. I guess that's true. He also says I'm going to need to take a "don't-ask-don't-tell policy" on my gender. Heavier on the don't tell. More specifically, women in sports struggle for sponsorship. Women in motorsports are virtually unheard of. Therefore in this sport I will be a racer and, as far as any benefactors are concerned, a guy. Capitalism, huh?

I said I wouldn't let you down. I still mean that. In part, when I heard that you were accepted to the school in Vienna, all of those things that hadn't worried me – things about success and motivation and generally performing in the world as we know it – came crashing down around me. I'd been so caught up in our 'other project' that I realised I hadn't really planned for surviving the year. Leadership skills still in progress. So I'm doing this thing. Properly. I have personal training in the morning, and time on the track in the afternoons. I have a nutritionist. I have a physio. I put my foot down when a therapist was suggested. Forget about it. I can agree with my father only up to a point. I really hope – rather, I'm really going to work – to make this year happen.

Still, I think of you.

I still have those strange dreams – they must be memories? We never talked much about those. Some of the dreams are perfect - the feeling is so clear; some are terrifying. I dream. I wake. I miss you. I even bought a bottle of that shampoo you kept in the shower. I wouldn't use it. Way too flowery. It's just something like your fragrance. Not quite, not perfect, but a piece of it.

It probably sounds weak, but I want to wish you well. I want you to love your new city. I want your music to spread out to charm those Austrians. I want you to be happy.

You are always in my thoughts.

Haruka

X

M

X

Airports are rather like hospitals. They have a strange quality of light; it seems to respond to the tension of the people within. We are here for arrivals and departures. I am here with my mother and hand luggage. I have asked her to stop purchasing magazines, trinkets, chewing gum (chewing gum?) and other such sundry items she is suddenly panicked about that I don't possess.

"It's only a twelve hour flight." I repeat. "And there will be a representative from the school to collect me…"

"But what about money when you get there? And your phone, does it work?"

"I will have plenty of time to look after those things when I arrive."

"What about the language? If you get lost and…"

"Keine Angst."

"What?"

"It's going to be perfectly fine. If my father can handle all this travel why should I have any trouble?"

"Well yes. Yes, I suppose. You are rather more organised than him."

We laugh at that. My father has had rather too many instances of mad dashes to the airport. Several missed flights had resulted in outrageously expensive travel costs. The worst was certainly when he ran out with my mother's laptop bag instead of his own.

I look up to find the international departures sign flashing up with my flight number. I double check, not wishing to risk the Kaioh curse. I nod to my mother.

"Jetzt muss ich gehen."

X

Dear Haruka,

Thank you for your letter. I didn't get it in person – I'm already in Vienna – but when my mother said she found it in the post I couldn't quite wait for it to be sent on. I had this sudden fear that it would be lost in a foreign sea! I had her read it to me. It did occur, a little later, that it might have been a risky thing to do but then again, there are bigger risks aren't there? I'm not sure what she made of talk of memories, I imagine she thought you were being poetic. I did ask her to send it through to me after wards. I also asked to her to make a photocopy. Not quite rational, I suppose, but who are you to judge?

I accept your apology. It would have been better in person but perhaps you are right. I don't know that I could have made it here leaving you at an airport gate or a park bench somewhere. I probably would have pleaded with you to join me. Then where would you be? Osaka and your racing prospects sound like an opportunity not to pass up. I wish I'd been able to meet your father. And you could've met mine. Does that sound girlish? I still want to know more about you. I still think of running away some days. On bad days, particularly when the temperature isn't right and the sound quality isn't as good and I feel like I don't deserve my place here. On those days I wish I was back in that house with you and Hotaru and Setsuna. Even just you. Just your own stubborn, impossible self. Sometimes I wish myself to that place and time.

I dream of you too, but I wouldn't want to detail such thoughts on paper. For all I know you've been in an accident and need your mother to read out your correspondence. Well I should make a point of revenge! Let it be known that her daughter enjoys fingernails down her spine, that she wears sexy boxer shorts and that she can indeed be less stubborn and more – pliable – under certain conditions. Xxx

You haven't met someone else, have you?

Weather in April is capricious. They have a phrase for it that translates rather rudely. It can be shining one day and snow the next! I don't think you'd enjoy it. It doesn't make for great motorcycling conditions according to my roommate's boyfriend. He often grumbles about having to pack more gear than he can carry (but he actually rides a scooter – 50cc – I don't know if you'd approve!) My roommate is lovely, by the way. She moved here from Korea on a performing arts scholarship. There are so many talented people here – it's really inspiring.

So many people, just not you.

I feel it every day.

Michiru.

X

H

X

Focus Now. Focus on 2 seconds ahead of now. Focus on 2 minutes, 2 hours.

You're already there.

This is the kind of nonsense my instructor feeds me. I have to repeat it back to him. He reckons he's some kind of Moto-Yoda. Problem is you can't get anywhere without playing these stupid games. No track time. It's like being 5 years old again.

"No baseball until you've finished piano"

So I memorise my lines as I walk. It is raining and I feel every drop. Nerves, I guess. I don't walk fast. The paths are wide. There aren't many people out tonight. It's late, dark and totally wet. A BMW slides around a corner sending a wing of water into the air. 2 seconds from now and I'm drenched. 2 hours ago, when I began walking, I was equally drenched. Balanced. My instructor would be impressed. My physician would not.

The buildings are lit up and gothic-looking. Every now and then you'll see a statue – some stone person reaching out in eternal plea. Something a little too close about that; I'll admit to looking twice. The rain runs down their faces from their blank eyes but they stay outside, guarding those buildings. It would be a shock to see regular folk in today's fashion exit those heavy doors. You'd expect some kind of nobleman, or some kind of hunchback to be waiting on the inside. Hunchback would be cooler. But that's French, isn't it?

The building I'm looking for is closer now, glowing in the night through all the rain. A street name no longer handwritten. Had I imagined this? I suppose I had. Something like this. But a different time zone. Different levels of precipitation. I walk on.

The campus is something else. They have this massive park out the front. So much space! I'm still getting used to it after Tokyo. I'm looking for a building number. A floor number. A room number. My hand trembles. There is a voice inside. I don't recognise it. A wrong turn? Was this even the right school? I hesitate. Then I knock, just lightly.

The voice inside becomes quiet. Footsteps approach. I breathe in. The door opens.

A stranger. A woman. She looks shocked, asks something in German, I think. My heart sinks.

"Kaioh – uh, Kaioh Michiru?"

"Ah, Michiru." She nods and gestures that I come in. I don't move yet.

"Do you speak English?" she asks then.

"A little." I answer.

"Same here!" She laughs. I'm from Korea – so you're Japanese too?"

"Yeah," I say, "Yes, from Osaka."

"Great! Takoyaki capital, huh?"

"…Yeah." I find myself shiver.

"Michiru's out at the moment. Not sure if she had a show on tonight. You're welcome to come in and wait." She gestures again.

I smile. I step back and shake my head. The fear folds in on itself and is replaced with the cold of the evening. "It's okay." I say. "It's late. I'll try tomorrow."

I walk down the corridor. It reminds me vaguely of Adachi. I'm leaving wet foot prints.

"Wait!" Calls the roommate. "But you're her girlfriend, aren't you?"

Girlfriend? I freeze. Did she have someone else? I turn back. I try to combine words in a foreign language into an explanation.

"I…"

There are other students moving in and out of rooms. Are the listening in? One comes up the stairs and is about to pass.

"Are you?" Whispers a familiar voice.

I spin around.

You're there.

Calm. Two hands neatly carrying a violin case. There is a slight smile on your face.

"My – English isn't that great – not sure I understood the question." I run a hand through my hair. It is plastered to my head.

"We'll be fine." You call back to your roommate. She nods. The door closes. It is darker again. The rain continues as though nothing has happened. You place you violin case on the floor. You hold my face and look almost as though you're checking my identity.

"You're freezing," You say, "How did you get here?"

"Uh." I look down at myself. "I swam?"

"Looks like it." But you're only watching my face.

"It's a couple of trains and a bus from Spielberg where – "

You kiss me, softly, still holding my face.

"I needed to check." You say.

"You said that an apology would be better in person."

You drop your hands. I feel the cold suddenly.

"Haruka! Six months ago!"

"Five… and a bit."

"So?" You ask.

"So?"

"So your apology – I'm ready."

"Right…" I clear my throat. "… sorry."

You fold your arms. You sign heavily. You turn out to look at the rain. Your back shakes.

"I didn't mean – what was the thing I wrote before - ?"

Then I notice it. You're laughing. You're actually laughing! You turn back and step into me. Your arms are around my neck.

"You'll wreck your dress." I murmur.

"You'd better be worth the trouble." You whisper back.

"Who'd this girlfriend your roommate is asking about? You never said you were seeing anyone."

"Oh her?" You smile sweetly. "Just one of my many."

"Many, huh?"

Your perfume. Your voice.

"Hundreds."

Your lips.

"You break my heart."

Your neck. Your hands at my collar.

"It's all you deserve."

Your eyes. Your blue, blue eyes laughing back at me – this place and this time – in the light of a Viennese moon.

Fin.