When the Parade of Beasts Arrive

A Pomegranate Hive Recommended Read: Hiromi Kawakami’s “Parade”

Okay, so there is a clear pattern to my recommendations. I started with the novel, then gave you a novella, and, now, I am full-heartedly recommending a novelette. It may speak to the times of pandemic, but it is safe to say that my attention span has experienced varying degrees of capacity.

But this is not to say that I wouldn’t have read Hiromi Kawakami’s Parade otherwise. I am such a lover of that “short-but-not-short-enough” form that we would have crossed paths eventually! And I might as well note right now, that I read this little treasure trove of a world about seven times over during the course of the last two years. It is that amazing and special.

Parade is a continuation of the lives of Tsukiko and “Sensei” from Strange Weather in Tokyo, which, already a slim novel, packs a punch of slice-of-life that manages to imbue meaning into the nondescript as, in truth, that is how our lives are most oft lived. Further, it explores the ways that we come to know love regardless of what conventions tell us.

I can wax on forever about aspects of the novelette I love, but a good starting point would be the “action” of the story, the actually plotline, which covers a shared lunch between Tsukiko and Sensei. He asks her to tell him a story from long ago, and she proceeds to tell a story from her childhood. And…that’s it. That’s the entire novelette. The lunch functions as a frame for the story that Tsukiko tells, ultimately making it a story within a story for all you inception heads.

Tsukiko’s Universal Yet Not So Universal Childhood

At once painfully normal and relatable, what we think is entering into simple memory of childhood ends up being a slip into the supernatural and the speculative. We find ourselves quickly within the underbelly of story wrought with the creatures of old that color the folktales of Japan.

Tsukiko wakes one night to find two tengu in her room. Tengu are red, mischievous demons, and the ones that visit her are young and boisterous. They cannot understand one another as they try to communicate, but nonetheless the tengu decide to latch to her, choosing to join her during the rounds of her normal, relatable life for the days and weeks to come — which is when Sensei pipes in to ask, “When did they leave?” Because, obviously, in the time that he’s known her, she hasn’t had tengu following her around.

But that’s the question, isn’t it? When did the tengu leave? And if they did, it is natural to follow up with the question: why did they leave?

The Utilization of the Profane

When Tsukiko first returns to school, the two tengus trailing her, she immediately notices that there are other children with other creatures tethered to them. There was kappas and kitsunes and old hags and more. It isn’t every child, but a select few, who, like her, have something latched to them.

At first, of course, Tsukiko kind of freaks out. But the other kids who have had their creatures for far longer are so aloof in the face of the profane that Tsukiko comes to accept that this is just a different type of normal, and its true. For the children that can see the creatures, this is normal. The creatures exist on the page and in their lives, and the children understand that this isn’t some curse or plague, but simply a portion of their very normal normal.

There is something so special in this. More, it is interesting to me that all the creatures that appear tend toward the dark and mischievous side, leaning toward the profane rather than the sacred. Surely, there is something to be said in this choice. For me, it is near representative of the distinctions we put upon what we deem normal and abnormal, and how weak those distinctions truly are and most how easy it is to simply ignore such societal norms with little to no impact upon one’s own life.

The Role of the Tengu

But, perhaps I’ve spoken too soon because, in reality, the story of Tsukiko’s childhood is quite more dark than initially described. Her story that she chooses to tell Sensei is warped by guilt as she relays her role as witness to the incessant bullying her school peers commit against a classmate of hers, which she is ultimately frustrated by because she has a different tier of relationship with this classmate as they both attend the same cram school and take the same path home, thereby forcing her into a space to uncomfortably act with someone already outcased. Despite the violence committed against this classmate that Tsukiko can clearly see has done nothing wrong, she herself wants nothing to do with her lest she is pegged as worthy of violence as well.

Eventually, through all this, the tengu get sick. Mostly, they become sick after seeing this classmate of Tsukiko’s so sad and withdrawn. Though this classmate can’t even see them, Tsukiko watches as they place their hands upon her as if they could somehow heal the wounds she holds inside.

The Ending

In the end, well, it ends. The classmates bullies find someone new to pick on. The tengu eventually leave Tsukiko. Tsukiko, herself, grows older. There is no explanation for the appearance of the tengu nor their sudden disappearance. But what we, the readers, and Tsukiko and Sensei are aware of is a distinct transition having taken place. At that time when the tengu left, Tsukiko was on the precipice of lost innocence and transition into an adult way of knowing.

The fantastical element of childhood, folklore, and wonder is left behind, and with it, so too goes the beautiful supernatural creatures she was able to host space with. It all simply ends. Without pomp, without explanation, without wasted time ruminating upon the whats and whys.

My ending note here is that the use of the mythological and folkloric to tackle pointed or universal experiences is one of my favorite devices within storytelling. The tengu were used in such a quiet way that they appeared nearly unspecial at all — to me, this is important because in many ways, the supernatural isn’t supernatural at all.

When I was young, I used to be told to set the extra plate of food out for my departed grandfather. I was told to never step upon the grass and disturb the dwende’s home. I was told never to hide in the dark less the kapre come out to get me. As a child, I never challenged the fantastical nature of these truths. I simply did what was asked of me because it was normal. Because of these experiences, much of Tsukiko’s story resonates with me. I, too, grew up. I, too, lost that sight. I, too, came to terms with adulthood and at some point, those childhood creatures of folklore ceased to be real and became exactly that — creatures of folklore. Essentially, they were left behind too.

Mabuhay, I’m EA Garcia, and I’m a thriving eater of story. I reflect on all my reads across genres, forms, and categories. Since I only read BIPOC work and prioritize small, indie, and micro press work, you might find a new read! I also write on academia, publishing, & decolonization, ftw.

Feel free to recommend things in the comments below! I LOVE recs: particularly books, dramas, manga, & webtoons! Try to keep it BIPOC and marginalized ❤

Read about WHY I only read BIPOC folk, get a taste for my stance on decolonizing bookshelves, or look at some funky reviews of storywork!