Over the past few years, I’ve developed a fondness for Japanese fiction, particularly books by women writers such as Yūko Tsushima, Mieko Kawakami and Sayaka Murata. Now I can add Banana Yoshimoto to this list courtesy of The Premonition, a haunting, enigmatic story of childhood, long-buried memories and the complex nature of family relationships. Although the novella was first published in Japan in 1988 – the same year as the author’s award-winning book, Kitchen appeared – it has only just made its way into English, beautifully translated by Asa Yoneda. I found this to be a very captivating, dreamlike read. Yoshimoto creates an alluring, melancholy mood here, exploring these themes with the lightest of touches.
Our narrator is Yayoi, a nineteen-year-old girl who lives in Tokyo with her parents and younger brother, Tetsuo. On the surface, life for Yayoi seems perfect. Her father works as a doctor for a large corporation while her mother, a former nurse, looks after the newly refurbished house, a paragon of middle-class domesticity. Both children are surrounded by love and support, just like the family ‘in that Spielberg movie’. But deep down, Yayoi is haunted by the feeling that she has forgotten something crucial about the past. Her childhood remains a mystery, a troubling gap where treasured memories should exist. Sometimes, a strange feeling resurfaces, causing Yayoi to feel she is on the verge of recalling an important detail, but each time the memory itself remains tantalisingly out of reach.
Things come to a head one Sunday while Yayoi is helping her mother with the gardening. Suddenly, she is assailed by a vision, a rush of images flitting through her mind like scenes glimpsed from a speeding car. A woman’s hand places some flowers in a vase; a seemingly happy couple can be seen from behind; and a young girl, who appears to be Yayoi’s sister, looks up at a window calling Yayoi’s name. But the trouble is, Yayoi doesn’t have a sister – at least, not that she is aware of…
The same day, Yayoi also learns through a conversation with her mother that she experienced premonitions as a young child. Whenever the phone rang at home, Yayoi could predict who was calling, even when she didn’t know them personally. Sites of former tragedies proved another crucial trigger for the girl, prompting her to sense where fatal accidents or incidents had occurred. She could even tell when her parents had been fighting in secret, such was the power of her intuition – an unsettling sixth sense that waned over time.
Unsettled by these disturbing events, Yayoi decides to visit her Aunt Yukino, an eccentric thirty-year-old woman who lives a solitary, unstructured life in isolation from her family. Intriguingly, the novella opens with a description of Yukino’s house, setting the novella’s lush, dreamlike tone right from the very start – like a dark, unsettling fairy tale with an enigmatic aura.
I can see it now: The heavy door made of wood had a cloudy brass knob. The weeds in the neglected garden grew thick and lush, stretching tall among the dying trees, shutting out the sky. Vines carpeted the dark exterior walls, and the windows were patched haphazardly with tape. The dust covering the floor rose and danced translucent in the sunlight before settling again. A comfortable clutter reigned, and dead light bulbs were left in peace. Time had no foothold in that house. Until I turned up, my aunt had lived there quietly on her own, as though asleep, for years. (pp. 3–4)
In contrast to the rest of her family, Yukino lives an unconventional life, abandoning the normal routines that govern our daily existence. Time seems elastic here, expanding and contracting irrespective of the outside world and its 24-hour clock. Consequently, mealtimes are either irregular or non-existent, while drinks at 2 am seem a natural occurrence, contrary to conventional expectations. But despite this erratic lifestyle, Yayoi feels more at ease here than at home, bonding with her aunt in a natural, relaxed manner.
She was so much older, and when I was with her, I felt like I had nothing to fear. Not the dark of night, nor everything I still didn’t know about myself. Strange to think how I’d always felt anxious in my warm home, yet here, where daily life felt so precarious, I was fulfilled. (p. 48)
In due course, further revelations come to light, illuminating Yayoi’s relationships with her family and the source of her buried memories – but I’ll leave you to discover those for yourself, should you decide to read the book.
The elegant melody awakened a sweet feeling in me, as if I’d once spent long days just like that, watching sounds, somewhere in the distant past. Listening with my eyes closed, I felt as though I were at the bottom of a green ocean. All the world seemed to be lit up by shafts of light. The current moved limpidly, and in it, my troubles skimmed past me like schools of fish barely brushing against my skin. I had a premonition of setting out on a journey and getting lost inside a distant tide as the sun went down, ending up far, far away from where I started. (p. 16)
On the surface, Yoshimoto’s prose feels crystalline and precise, and yet this calm exterior acts as a cover for hidden depths. There’s something dreamlike and unsettling here, mirroring Yayoi’s unease about elusive memories from her past, a previous loss or trauma lurking beneath this veneer. It’s a style that allows the author to tackle some troublesome themes, from family secrets and unconventional life choices to isolation and love between siblings, in a gentle but meaningful way.
Like Yūko Tsushima, Yoshimoto writes beautifully about light, from the first rays of sun falling gently on the eyelids to the spectral glow of moonlight illuminating the dark.
The world outside the window seemed to be floating in bluish light that turned the trees into layered black paper cutouts. I could have watched their rustling outlines endlessly. (p. 64)
The narrative ends in a journey when Yukino disappears and Yayoi and her brother Tetsuo – a determined, enterprising young man, barely younger than his sister – set out to find her. For Yayoi, the need to fully understand the past proves crucial to her future development, finally cementing the foundations of her identity in place. Once again, Yoshimoto excels in creating atmosphere here, enveloping the reader in a magical, dreamlike mood.
In the pitch-black wood, between dark-windowed houses that rose like ghosts in the dark, through the faint rays of moonlight, we walked. Deep green air seemed to ripple out into the night sky every time the wind shook the trees’ leafy, slumbering branches. (p. 87)
In summary, then, The Premonition is a haunting, enigmatic story of identity, long-buried memories and blended, extended families. As I read this book, I couldn’t help but think of the Japanese filmmaker Hirokazu Kore-eda, whose tender portraits of complex, unconventional family dynamics have something in common with Yoshimoto’s themes. Highly recommended, especially for fans of haunting, dreamlike fiction with an elusive edge.
The Premonition is published by Faber; my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.
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