Chapter Text
People say a lot of things about Mori Ougai: that he’s a bit unsettling given the unnatural red-violet hue of his eyes, that social interactions with him often feel staged and artificial, that despite those qualities, he’s a respected man as the successor to Mori Corporation. They say he has sharp wits and performs, unsurprisingly, in top form throughout his major coursework in Waseda University’s business program. He almost always wears a collared shirt and ties, as if he has already succeeded his aging father despite being in his final year of university. Though unlike his father, his attire tends to have muted colors. He smiles often, it’s said, whether out of satisfaction or condescension or some twisted form of amusement. He acts mature for his age. Even his peers address him as Mori-dono, as if he can’t be separated from the power his name carries. Darker still, there’s talk that the Mori family is connected with all sorts of unsavory criminal groups: the yakuza, the Italian mafia, some German crime syndicate… the list goes on.
Rumors fly, and Fukuzawa elects not to concern himself with them until his second semester of doctoral studies, when he’s slated to teach business ethics again. He only considers them now because the name Mori Ougai appears on his roster, and partly because Fukuzawa is certain people have likely said similar things about him: that he’s a strict professor who always teaches in traditional Japanese attire with muted color schemes, that he also sometimes carries a katana that may or may not be real. People speculate whether he has a license. He does, as his chair knows, and thanks to his own name, no one questions whether he’ll ever draw it (though he has threatened to a few times). People also say that Natsume Soseki, a professor of literature, greatly respects him for reasons untold, though people suspect it was because he himself was a model student, going straight from an undergraduate degree to a master’s program to a doctoral program. They say that he likes cats too much and will always stop to pet one, even if it will make him a few minutes late to a class or meeting. He’s aloof, authoritative, unfeeling, all nods to his own powerful heritage, and he’s rumored to never smile or laugh. People also say that he teaches at Waseda but lives in west Yokohama on his family’s estate, where he feeds the handful of stray cats he has named after philosophers.
He hopes that among those rumors is the comment that he makes students think. Somehow, he doubts that mattered to anyone who passed through his classroom last semester and anyone who will pass through it this semester, Mori Ougai included.
He begins his business ethics course with his usual introduction: by arriving exactly two minutes late and walking between rows of chairs on several levels towards the front of the room, reveling in the way his presence shuts down any hushed murmurs. When he reaches the front of the room, he puts his satchel down, sets his hands on the podium, and announces, “What is the meaning of time?”
As usual, no one speaks. Fukuzawa spots Mori sitting three rows back. He knows because the third-year business student is wearing a violet collared shirt, black tie, and khaki slacks, as rumored, and that his eyes really are a shade of violet-tainted red, also as rumored. He’s also smiling in a way that really is as unsettling as people have said, but not because of what Fukuzawa believes is present there. No… it’s what’s absent that troubles him.
“As this is business ethics, we sadly won’t be touching much more on this subject. So think well, and be ready to answer that question at the end of the semester.” Then, clearing his throat, he continues, “My name is Fukuzawa Yukichi, and I’ll be your instructor this semester. As long as you’re my students, address me as Fukuzawa-sensei. Once you graduate, Fukuzawa-dono would be more suitable. After I call role, I will discuss my expectations for the course.”
The semester is, on the whole, average. A bit better than the last, at least; he feels he’s getting his footing with this course since this is his second time teaching it. The only difference is, at the end of the first week, while everyone else is filing out, he finds none other than Mori Ougai occupying the space by the podium. “Yes? What can I assist you with?”
Mori looks him dead in the eye and says, “Time is what prevents everything from happening at once.”
Fukuzawa hums and makes a show of packing up, but he’s really just trying to buy a little of that force or thing that, as Mori put it, prevents everything from happening at once.
“You can say you don’t recognize the response,” Mori states, shrugging. “Albert Einstein, a physicist and father of the theory of relativity. Perhaps it was unfair of me to consult sources outside the discipline.”
Fukuzawa hums again. “I don’t believe I find your answer unfair. After all, disciplinary boundaries are eroding a little more every day, especially in the humanities.” He won’t tell Mori he has never received an answer and never expects to. After all, most students passing through his courses are just there to fulfill a general education requirement. He knows none of them are as interested in philosophy as he is and teaches with that in mind, though he does let his passion creep in sometimes, especially as nods to theories surrounding that ever elusive concept of happiness. He lifts his satchel and finds Mori still smiling at him. “Is that all?”
“I was hoping you would evaluate my response.”
He’s serious, he tells himself, meeting Mori’s expectant look. Holding back a smile, he answers, “The two most powerful warriors are patience and time.”
Mori’s smile disappears, and he tilts his head.
“Leo Tolstoy, a Russian novelist.” Fukuzawa walks past Mori. “You strike me as the kind of person who isn’t used to being told no, but I can’t set an unreasonable precedent of grading things upon instantly receiving them. Give me a week.”
“Very well, Fukuzawa-dono.”
“That’s Fukuzawa-sensei,” he calls without turning around. “You can call me that after class is finished.” After returning to the office he shares with other TAs, he sits down at his desk and lets out a slow breath. He may have delayed the inevitable, but he definitely needs to come up with some kind of response.
He has no idea where to start, but over the course of the next week, he comes to an answer one walk through his neighborhood, one scalding hot soak, and one late night page turn at a time. Sure enough, at the end of the week, as all of the other students file out, Mori approaches the podium again, and Fukuzawa is about to give him what he wants, but he says, “I find time an odd concept linguistically, Fukuzawa-dono.”
“Sensei,” Fukuzawa retorts. “What do you mean linguistically?”
“It’s just that the English verbs relating to time are so economical. Time isn’t used; it’s spent. It’s given and taken. It’s managed. It’s invested. If we’re not using time well, it’s wasted.” He pauses. “There’s an idiom in English.” Mori says something that definitely isn’t Japanese before murmuring, “Time is money.” He folds his arms. “I wonder what it says about me that I’m spending so much time considering a question that doesn’t even pertain to the course.”
“Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time,” Fukuzawa states, supposing Mori more interested in expansion than evaluation.
“Bertrand Russel?”
“A common misattribution, as is any source that credits the saying to John Lennon, the singer. The real origin was Marthe Troly-Curtin, a little-known 1900s American writer.” He pauses and turns to find Mori staring in his direction. “Since you’ve added to your answer, I’ll take another week to reconsider my evaluation.”
“Fukuzawa-dono—”
“And,” Fukuzawa continues, “I insist that you call me Fukuzawa-sensei.” He finishes climbing to the front of the room and exits.
It goes on like that all semester: Mori adds to his response, or retracts part of it. Fukuzawa provides another avenue of thought. Mori calls him “Fukuzawa-dono,” a move Fukuzawa thinks is out of sheer stubbornness. And in the blink, he has reached the end of his second semester as a doctoral student. He’s both relieved and saddened in November as the course comes to an end and the new term ramps up. He’s already forming habits when he ends a course. After he receives the final essays, he closes with the usual well-wishes for the future, a note about how business ethics applies to real-life citations, and a real encouragement to pursue happiness, whatever that looks like, and as long as it doesn’t directly harm others. He’s almost done when Mori’s hand shoots up. “Yes?” he asks.
“I have to ask, Fukuzawa-dono.”
Now he’s convinced Mori is doing it just to agitate him.
“At the beginning of the term, you asked us what the definition of time was. I’m curious to hear your answer.”
A few murmurs rise, partly because of the question, partly because Fukuzawa gives one of his rare smiles. “In short: time is what we make it. You are all dismissed.”
Everyone rises, and Fukuzawa busies himself with placing the final assignments in his bag. But as he does, a shadow falls across the desk at the front of the room. He knows without looking up it’s Mori.
“Fukuzawa-dono—”
“You asked for my answer,” Fukuzawa states. “I provided it.”
“I’m requesting the long version.”
Fukuzawa blinks. “Why?”
“Simple,” Mori states. “Because it interests me like nothing else has.”
Fukuzawa stares at his outgoing student and clears his throat. “Walk with me to my office. It takes approximately seven minutes, so I’ll provide you the seven-minute version.”
“Is that the long version?”
“It’s the version I’m offering.”
That day, it takes Fukuzawa almost ten minutes to get to his office. Mostly because Mori is walking deliberately slow. It’s as grating as it is reassuring. He’s convinced Mori would make a decent philosopher, given how meticulous and thoughtful he is. “Every person, and arguably every living thing, has that opportunity, though that opportunity is always constrained by forces like social rules, religious beliefs, ethics, routines…” He pauses because he’s at his door. “Perhaps you found that version more to your liking?”
“So time is the wandering of living things as Plato says? If it’s a line, why does it pass?”
“Not everything that passes is a line. In fact, an entirely different set of schools debate the shape and direction of time. W. H. Newton-Smith’s The Structure of Time is the source I’d recommend, as he discusses both.”
Folding his arms, Mori nods. “On the subject of time, I am grateful for yours, Fukuzawa-dono. Good luck with your course next term.”
“Likewise,” he says.
He hates to admit it, but when Mori is gone, he breathes a long sigh of relief. He has a paper he’s trying to finish last minute for one of his graduate courses, partly because he has invested so much time in indulging Mori’s discussions. Well, no more of it, thankfully. He’s done. Mori’s last term begins tomorrow. And he’s nearly done with his first year of doctoral studies. Time flies, he thinks, biting back an amused laugh as he sits down at his desk.
Except he’s not done. At the end of the following term, at nearly eight o’clock in the evening, he returns to his office with a stack of readings in his arm to study for qualifying exams. It’s the perfect time, considering the office will likely be empty. And that’s fortunate in several capacities. He can’t even see around the stack. He nearly trips more than once.
“You seem to be in need of assistance.”
Fukuzawa peers around the books, and sure enough, Mori is standing beside the TA office. Still, his arms hurt, and he’s worried his haori is going to start slipping off his shoulder. He accepts the assistance with a murmur of gratitude and a slight bow. They split the stack. Once it’s broken roughly in half, it’s easier to transport. Fukuzawa sets his half down with a sigh, then rotates his wrist and plops down into his chair. “Do you have a reason to be here, Mori-dono?”
Shrugging, Mori stands beside Fukuzawa’s desk. He’s still catching his breath when he sees Mori set one last book on top of the stack.
“I read Newton-Smith cover to cover. A fascinating book. His rejection of classical the classical absolutist and relativist standpoints in favor of time as theory was of particular interest.”
“Then what’s this?” Fukuzawa reaches for the book.
“Relativity: The Special and General Theory by Albert Einstein. It took some considerable effort to find a copy in Japanese. For your perusal when you… have the time.”
Fukuzawa watches Mori study the books on his desk.
“You are taking qualifying exams soon, I suspect?”
“Yes. Unlike you, I still have a few years until my education is complete.”
“I considered a master’s briefly,” Mori states, shrugging. “I don’t think I need to tell you this, but while business is my inevitable future, it is not where my passions lie.”
Mori turns the book over. “You said it took you a while to find a Japanese copy.”
“I read it in German first, then English. Personally, I prefer the original German.”
Fukuzawa blinks.
“But now, I’m taking up too much of your time.” Mori takes a step backwards. “My twenty-first birthday is in sixteen days. I was hoping you’d be willing to join me.”
“Isn’t that a bit inappropriate, considering I was your instructor and you were my student?” Fukuzawa asks.
Mori folds his arms. “Your course ended in November, and as of midnight tonight, I am no longer enrolled. For all intents and purposes, I am finished with my degree. Besides,” Mori continues, “you are the only person I have actually talked with.”
“You have a part-time job at your father’s company. I suspect you talk with a great many people.”
“All superficial,” Mori states, waving his hand and pacing the empty office. “Those individuals are more interested in maximizing profit and expanding business than in theories of any kind, let alone those centered around time.”
Fukuzawa leans against the back of his chair and watches Mori come to a stop.
“Truthfully, I don’t feel like I’ve ever had a single honest, engaging conversation in my life. Except with you. And did you not mention pursuing happiness so long as that didn’t impede the happiness of others?”
“You’re impeding a bit,” Fukuzawa states.
Scoffing, Mori responds, “Then permit me to apologize properly on February 17 at 5:30 pm.” A Sunday evening. Of course he wouldn’t be working. “I can provide you directions to Yokohama—”
“I am capable of getting there, thank you.” Fukuzawa studies the book in his hands. There’s something between the pages. A flyer for a restaurant near Minato Mirai 21. He’s going to need a break from reading by then. He knows that. But Mori isn’t a break; he’s more an extraneous extension of his workday. Still, it’s in Yokohama, and he wouldn’t feel right refusing, so he murmurs, “I will… consider it.”
“Then if you ultimately decide not to,” Mori murmurs, pacing towards the door. “I shall consider it the highest honor that you gave it more than a moment’s thought.” He bows slightly before he leaves Fukuzawa alone in the TA office with his stacks of books on ethics, among which the copy of Einstein’s work seems as out of place as Fukuzawa suddenly feels.