Usually, in a fine model railroad, an old couple on a bench waiting for a train or a porter carrying heavy-looking bags are more interesting than a train or a railway. Haruki Murakami, as a traveler, can be felt going somewhere in this kind of model. Perhaps that traveler – whose figure recolored the zinc of a pinky nail, and who’s on his way holding a pinky-sized business briefcase – must be there waiting for a train.

The contents of his case: things too small to understand. What business he has: maybe he’s going on a little trip. The inside of this panorama doesn’t disclose enough to know.

In my imagination, that figure, since he plans to go see this whole model many times over, only answers with “I guess you could call it that.”

“This model – you – you’re not just imaginary.

I feel that way, too. My pastimes are similar.

When I take a train, it seems like I won’t know when I’ll be back either.

After I get on, I never get bored.”

When he starts losing interest in the massive models of one panorama, before he knows it, he’s waiting for a train on another model’s platform.

“Really, you’re not imaginary.

It’s unpleasant; I moved somewhere else because that place was so perpetual.” Gently, I uncapped the mouth of a zinc bottle.

―　i

Translation by Kody NOKOLO