Miracle Apples

Chapter 1

The man’s name is Akinori Kimura. The first time I met him was at the end of 2006, some twenty years after the time he’d spent days staring at inchworms under his fruitless apple trees.

‘Miracle apples’ was what people called them. Miraculous or not, getting hold of them was certainly difficult. With a third of the apple juice made from his apples being bought by a certain politician, and a French restaurant in Tokyo serving an exquisite soup made with his apples, his order books were full for one year ahead. I’d heard endless such rumours. He has spent the best part of thirty years growing apples without using pesticides. I was sure he’d be the cranky type, but when I called him from Tokyo to ask for an interview, he sounded charming.

Kimura’s home is in Iwaki-chō, about thirty minutes by car from the Japan Railway’s Hirosaki station in Aomori Prefecture. It used to be an independent town known as Iwaki-chō in Nakatsugaru District, but in February that year it had become part of Hirosaki City following municipal reorganization.

He said he would come to the station to meet me since his place was difficult to find by taxi. I arrived at the agreed time but there was no sign of Kimura. His home phone was continuously engaged and his mobile just rang and rang. I eventually got through after an hour.

“Sorry, sorry. Someone just dropped in. I’m on my way now, I’m really sorry.”

Kimura’s voice at the other end was so loud I instinctively jerked the phone from my ear.

There was no need for him to be so apologetic. I was the one who had requested the interview. On top of which there seemed to be something in the intonation in his strong Tsugaru accent that could melt the heart. I completely forgot that I’d been made to wait for an hour in the falling snow on the roundabout in front of Hirosaki station.

Kimura said he’d come and meet me straight away but that I’d still have to wait twenty minutes or more. I eventually decided to get a taxi to his house.

Leaving the centre of town along a road which runs beside the moat of Hirosaki Castle, famous for its cherry blossom, and crossing a bridge over the Hirosaki River, a breathtakingly beautiful, majestic mountain dominated the horizon. Mount Iwaki.
As its nickname, Tsugaru Fuji, suggests, the shape resembles Mount Fuji. A so-called ‘composite volcano’ formed by volcanic activity, it may well be a sibling, but Mount Iwaki is Mount Fuji’s younger sister rather than a younger brother. The graceful flanks of the mountain, which descend to the plains in a gentle arc, are frequently compared to the formal, twelve-layered kimonos worn by princesses in the Heian Period (794-1185). The mountain has special significance for those who live in the Tsugaru Plain area, and has been an object of worship since the earliest times. Iwaki-chō, the town where Kimura’s home is located, lies at the foot of the mountain.

When their town was merged with Hirosaki City, nothing changed in the way folk in Iwaki-cho made their living from agriculture based mainly on growing apples and rice. Typical Tohoku scenery studded with farming villages surrounds Iwaki-cho in every direction.

He said it was difficult to find his house, so Kimura came out in the snow to meet me at a nearby petrol station. He seemed to be in his late fifties, with a sprinkling of white in his short hair. Of medium build, he was typical of his generation, with a lean, tough frame characteristic of those who spend much of their life doing manual labour. This might give the impression that he was the reticent, impassive type. His character, however, was further from your typical Japanese than you could possibly imagine. Although it was our first meeting, he greeted me with an open, beaming face. From the moment I met him, he gave me the feeling he was an old friend I’d known for many years. His cheerfulness was infectious. Kimura radiated good-humour.