![]() ![]() ![]() It came as a surprise to find – about one-third of the way into the novel – that Tsukiko has a family. It’s all very low-key: two lonely people coming together, meeting each other’s needs in ways that are barely perceptible. She always calls him Sensei, which means ‘teacher’. They meet by chance in a bar, they have desultory meetings and a minor falling out over what seems like nothing at all, she tries to get by without him, and they end up having an affair. It’s a very controlled, aloof sort of relationship, told from her point-of-view in first person narration. The plot is very simple: it’s a May-December relationship between Tsukiko, a single woman of 38, and Sensei, a widower who long ago was her teacher of Japanese at high school. It’s been longlisted for the 2012 Man Asian Literary Prize, but (like Orhan Pamuk’s Silent House) has been nominated long after it was first published, because it’s only just been translated into English. And if you don’t, you may think this book rather lacking, in the way that you might prefer the robust flavours of Italian cookery or the complex artistry of French cuisine. You either like its elegant simplicity and the artful way that very restrained flavours are arranged, or you don’t. Reading The Briefcase, from the vantage point of one who has very little experience with Japanese fiction, it seems to me that it’s a bit like Japanese food. ![]()
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