You can't leave Tokyo on a slow boat to China

I'm not sure what to make of Hideo Furukawa's short novel Slow Boat. In the last chapter (titled "Liner Notes: Writing about What I'm Writing About") the author says, "This book demands an explanation." The chapter titles are all taken from stories by Haruki Murakami. 

In fact the Japanese title of the book is 中国行きのスローボトRMX or Slow Boat to China Remix. You can find Murakami’s story translated by Alfred Birnbaum in The Elephant Vanishes (1993). In it, the first-person narrator remembers the few Chinese people he has a met: a proctor at a Chinese school where he once took an exam, a female Chinese co-worker he might have had a relationship with but managed to carelessly lose, and a Chinese acquaintance from high school with whom he briefly reconnects. It is a story of memory, missed opportunities or lost connections, and a sense of living the wrong life and aching for another.

The publisher’s bio says that Furukawa was born in 1966 in Fukushima, “and is highly regarded for the richness of his storytelling and his willingness to experiment; he changes his style with every new book. His best-known novel is the 2008 Holy Family, an epic work of alternate history set in northeastern Japan. He has received the Mystery Writers of Japan Award, the Japan SF Grand Prize and the Yukio Mishima award.”

The narrator of Slow Boat states in the book’s first sentence, “I’ve never made it out of Tokyo.” The rest of the book is a chronicle of his three failures to leave Tokyo, seasoned with interesting asides. For example on the first page, “The Japanese language is nothing but lies. Or maybe just chaos.” 

But if the language is nothing but lies (and let’s not be distracted by the fact we’re reading this in English), what is he telling us? Why are we reading him? He’s writing in Japanese because, “It’s the best language I have for writing down my experiences (or the contents of my brain).” That said, he tells us it’s 9:20 in the morning in December and he’s in Hamarikyu, a park where the Sumida River meets Tokyo Bay.

As a fifth-grade student in 1985 he would not leave his bed and was sent to an “alternative school for dropouts” in the mountains, which “kind of felt like summer camp,” but was still in Tokyo. A new student arrives. She’s “not a freak or anything, but stuffed into her tight little bra are the finest, fullest-formed sixth-grade boobs in the Greater Metropolitan Area.” They become friends, but at the end of the summer, he loses her.

When he is nineteen, he begins having sex with a girl who points out that her left areola is “a flawless map of Hokkaido.” Her right areola seems to be the map of another island, and when she identifies it and takes off for it, she leaves the narrator literally stuck in Tokyo. 

He starts a café (Murakami ran a coffee house and jazz bar) and when his chef is unable to work, the guy’s younger sister, a high school girl, fills his place. She is a genius with s knife. “When everyone else my age was holding a milk bottle, I was gripping my boning knife.” Her dream had been to join the family business, but one day her father told her “I know what you’re thinking—but forget it. This business is no place for girls. Believe me, you’ll never make it.” 

She does, in fact make it in the narrator’s café and they become successful associates and all goes well until the shop is smashed. The Suginami police “concluded that a large amount of ice broke loose from the undercarriage of an American fighter jet and fell out of the sky,” destroying the café, which the narrator’s insurance will not cover.

Because Slow Boat is a remix of Haruki Murakami’s structure and themes, the book feels more like an artifact than a story, a work artificially created rather than one that grows out of engagement with the world. It is difficult to suspend disbelief willingly and thereby be engaged knowing from the get go that these characters, these situations are inventions and the author doesn’t expect the reader to believe they are genuine felt experience.

What I do admire immensely about the book is David Boyd’s translation. He manages to maintain the narrator’s voice throughout, and it cannot have been easy. He also had to deal with dialogue and come up with an exchange like this:

“Listen to me, you little shit . . .” He’s looking me right in the eye. “I’m not some grunt making fast food by the fucking manual. Got it?”

“Ye—yeah, I got it . . .”

“Here. Try this, asshole.”

I would like to see the original Japanese if only to broaden my knowledge of the language and the translator’s art, but it does not seem to be available as a standalone book.

If your taste runs to the improbable (an areola in the shape of Hokkaido?) and the artificial, you will probably enjoy Slow Boat. And even if you do enjoy the improbable, I think Murakami does it better.