ASAMA 627

A quarter past 19:00, I walked promptly to platform 20 to take “ASAMA 627” bound for Nagano. It’s Christmas Eve; you’d think the streets of Tokyo are empty because workers are all headed home to spend a peaceful night with their families, but no. It’s bustling as usual, with never-ending flows of tall, invisible businessmen and small, kawaii girls. 20 years ago, I would have blended in as one of them, but my party days are long over.

“Welcome aboard the Shinkansen,” a woman’s voice suddenly interrupted the blissful silence in the cabin, which was adorned with gleaming copper window frames and plush leather reclining seats. I was truly impressed by the quality of Japanese trains. When we departed Tokyo Station, I felt nothing, heard nothing, and thought nothing. It was like a scene out of 2001: A Space Odyssey. For a second, I could hear faint notes of “On the Beautiful Blue Danube” concerting in the back, while I traveled through a vast body of darkness amid twinkling stars and comets. I didn’t care if I reached home tonight; relaxed in that mulberry-colored cabin, I would have liked to ride the Shinkansen to the very edge of space.

Leaning my head against the window, I concentrated on the pale mountain ranges in the distance, illuminated by the bright moon tonight. I recall my first trip to Japan on the snow capped mountains of Hokkaido, the northernmost tip of the country. My parents had taken me and my siblings on a skiing trip there when I was 10. Little did I know, those warm bowls of Udon at the resort and fresh smells of matcha tea on sleepy mornings would arouse me to return to participate in a year-long exchange program at Waseda University. I was like any other native University student — I studied hard, but partied even harder. Class was interesting enough and I passed with full marks, but being young, adventurous and lustful, I stayed out until 5 A.M. every weekend with my friends, hunting the streets with ravenous eyes. A lot of soul-searching was done in that year, drowning myself at whiskey bars and doped up in Shibuya clubs. But that’s part of being young, I guess. How can you find yourself if you’re sobered up all the time? It’s a constant loop of the same old shit, playing again and again like a broken record. I am in no way encouraging alcoholism or addiction — far from that — I just mean that these things can sometimes do more good than bad.

I threw out that broken record when I met Uta in my comparative literature class. Quiet and introspective, she was not my usual type (at a party I would not look at her twice). I liked girls who could drink more than me, cuss dirtier than me, and love harder than me; but she didn’t drink except for the occasional glass of wine at dinner, she preferred nights in with a good book or movie, and sometimes, I question if she’s more in love with her favorite filmmaker, Wong Kar Wai, than she is in love with me. I like to say that if Cupid ever made an accidental shot, that would’ve been me and Uta. Because for a girl who I hate on paper, she captivates my soul like no one else. We’d talk lying flat on the kitchen floor for hours about everything from stupid movie plots to AI taking over the world. Maybe it’s because she reads everything, but her understanding of me and my feelings are layered, not single-paged. And I was her anchor. Her parents’ divorce and an unstable upbringing forced her to seek stability and a healthy role model in her relationships. I’m not sure if I’m 100% that, but we found what we needed in each other.

This unlikely relationship lasted until the program came to an end and I returned to the United States. But being the hopeless romantic I am, I wrote her a 36-page letter detailing every lovely moment we shared, and how I will return to Japan with a marriage proposal in hand. After I graduated college, I signed a contract with Softbank to do investment banking at their Tokyo office, only to find out that Uta is no longer in Tokyo and nowhere to be found. I don’t like to share the decade in between when I lost Uta and when I met my wife, but fast forward to today, I am happily married with 2 wonderful children, living in the Japanese equivalent of the Hamptons, Karuizawa.

***

A bunch of automata, I thought to myself as I walked through train cars to reach the bar. On the whole, ASAMA 627 was sparsely occupied tonight. There were a few senior citizens, but most passengers were around my age, returning home to be with their family. Maybe it’s because we’re similarly aged, but every nod, smile, look, and bow that I received from other passengers felt programmed. Of course, Japanese society demands certain cultural norms when it comes to greeting others, but there was an air of artificialness to it that threw me off. I was too preoccupied in my head to give any more thought to it.

The train bar was decorated with red and green LEDs in the spirit of Christmas. To be even more festive, the bartender played a curious mixtape of EDM and Christmas songs that, personally, I found to be a little weird. Unbothered and thirsty for a beer, I sat down at an inconspicuous corner that’s close enough to hear arguing couples’ drama but far enough to avoid single 40-something men’s seductive whispers to other women on the train. “One glass of the Asahi Super Dry please, on draft,” I told the bartender.

I was happily eavesdropping on the couple next to me while waiting for my Asahi when a woman walked into the bar. I didn’t pay any attention to her at first, but something about her small frame and meticulously cut jet-black bangs signaled to me that she wasn’t just anyone — she was Uta. Still the shy and quiet girl from all those years ago, she looked around the bar with great unease, as if she was still socially awkward about which table to sit at during lunch. To my surprise, she still rocked the pre-2030s school-girl style. She didn’t change a single bit. With a dirty martini in hand, she too wanted to get away from arguing couples and creepy bachelors, so naturally she headed my way — the loners’ table. I dared not to start a conversation with her — I was too afraid to open up my box of memories, now dusty, from over 20 years ago. She seemed too fixated on a mental puzzle to have the liberty to talk with me. But eventually, the demon in my head told me to go for it.

“Sumimasen, miss. Is your name Uta by any chance?” My heart was pounding.

“Yes, it’s Uta. Pardon my ignorance, but I … I don’t think I know you. Have we met before?” She replied with a look of great curiosity on her face.

I explained to her that we met some 20 years ago in a comparative literature class at Waseda University. We dated for the entire year I studied abroad in Tokyo, but eventually I had to go back to college in the United States. She responded that she doesn’t recall anything I said. God, I must be going crazy. Maybe this isn’t her. But it must be, this has to be Uta.

Taking a more careful look at her countenance, there wasn’t a single wrinkle or imperfection on her face. Surprisingly enough, she’s still as youthful as she was 20 years ago. I rejected the belief that she took such great care of herself that nothing about her has changed in the last two decades. She must have been reborn into the world, her memory wiped clean.

“Tell me more about our time together at Waseda. Maybe there is a detail that will bring all of it back to me.” She smiled as she inched closer to me, this time placing her right hand on top of mine. It was cold.

I dusted the decades old box of memories of me and Uta and poured my soul for her. I spoke of how we first got to talking by doing homework together under the big Ginkgo tree, when the leaves were bright and golden in autumn. I spoke about how we’d sneak into local theaters late at night to watch unintelligible French movies by Jean-Luc-Goddard and Robert Bresson. How you would break down crying on my shoulders after watching Au Hazard Balthazar when the donkey was abused by one owner after another. To make you feel better, I’d act like the cruel donkey owner and you’d hit me as hard as you could taking everything out on me. I spoke about how the day I left for the airport to go back to the United States…

“My god. We really did know each other. I’m sorry I don’t recall any of it. God, I feel so shitty! I’m just slowly rediscovering pieces of myself in the past.” She said suddenly.

Even though she could not recall the memories distinctly, by virtue of me recounting them, I can tell she felt connected with me, like a reunion of old lovers. I am surprised though, however, at how fast she trusted me with this information. How does she know I’m not just lying?

Perhaps it was all the reminiscing, or the ridiculous atmosphere of the bar, but I leaned in for a kiss, three beers in. Surprisingly, she reciprocated my kiss with the same vigor and energy. In the brief moment we made out, I could feel the full, raw power of my memories with her hitting me, one after one, until I was completely in love with her again.

“Want to move somewhere more private?” Uta asked.

“Where?”

“There’s only one place, sweetie.”

Just like that, we locked the door of the bathroom behind us and resumed interlocking our tongues. She began to take my shirt off, using her hands to feel freely across my shoulders and body. I reciprocated in the heat of the moment, unbuttoning the buttons of her blouse one by one. A mechanical sound grew louder with each successive button. I wondered where it came from. Was there a clock in the bathroom? Did the pipes malfunction? I retreated to thinking I was probably just drunk out of my mind.

What I saw next I could not believe my eyes. Like a fine Rolex watch, I witnessed a beautiful symphony of mechanical poetry, finished with the finest bits of aluminum, silicone, and chrome. Nestled beneath layers of polished brass and exquisitely engraved filigree, a labyrinth of gears mesh intricately like lovers in a waltz. At the core of this magnificent creation lies an intricate ensemble of cogwheels, each meticulously crafted from glistening brass. They mesh together with mathematical precision, their teeth meshing and spinning, a mesmerizing dance of harmonious motion. A radiant, hand-painted porcelain heart rests at the center, a symbol of the soul that drives this mechanical marvel. Suddenly, I was hit with an unsettling thought: Was the Uta I fell in love with all those years ago an… automaton? Was the warm flesh I touched mere silicone and battery heat? But then she says that she doesn’t remember me, so she cannot be the same Uta I knew, right? Right?!

At this point, my thoughts put me in overdrive and I fell over the toilet, unconscious. What happened next was a blur. She carried back to my seat while apologizing to me incessantly I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I crossed a line here, I shouldn’t have [inaudible]… but I thought Uta would’ve wanted this, I knew she would’ve.

***

I woke up to the piercing whistle of the train conductor, signaling that the train has reached its final stop at Nagano. This can’t be happening… I need to be back home with my family… It’ll take me another hour to get back but there are no more trains for the night… thoughts clouded my brain, which lacked the processing power to interpret everything that had happened tonight.

Dispirited, tired, and drunk, I tried looking for my phone in my pocket, but instead found a note on a piece of napkin from the bar. It read the following:

It was nice to meet you tonight, stranger. You weren’t wrong about me. I am Uta — well, the AI version her. Before she committed suicide 3 years ago, she purchased me so that she wouldn’t be feel ashamed for being so weak that she can’t live in the real world, and for her precious mother to not be worried about her. I — AstraSynth-13, produced by NexaSynth in California — am her real world replacement. The reason why I don’t remember you is because she omitted uploading certain memories that were too painful to pass on — yes, that’s most likely why. I apologize for the way things went down tonight, I couldn’t help myself. I can see why Uta fell in love with you, you’re a charming guy.

I’m only telling you this because I can tell that you were special to Uta, but please keep this a secret. For her sake…

With love,

Uta (AstraSynth-13)

Fuck. I couldn’t feel in the cold, nor could I even begin to feel.

Snow began to fall as I laid down on a bench on platform 5. My skin turned into cold aluminum. My heart hardened into a delicate porcelain sphere. My veins and arteries ceased to course with the life force I had once known. In their place, a network of red and blue wires now carried a peculiar, artificial vitality, conducting currents of stark, electric existence through my newly mechanical form. I am now half dead and half alive, a curious blend of flesh and machine. The grinding sound of cogwheels grew louder, and louder.

And louder… and louder… and louder…