The Miracles of the Namiya General Store

by Keigo Higashino

  She told me they would be grateful to this man for the rest of their lives and could only try to be worthy of his sacrifice. She asked me to remember how easily life can be taken away. She was sobbing as she begged me to see that, too.

  I understood why the staff had sent her now. They knew there was no other person who could help me reconcile my feelings, who could teach me how to feel. And they were right. She convinced me, and I started crying, too. I could finally offer thankfulness to the mother I had never known.

  From that day on, I never again told myself I wished I’d never been born. The road that brought me here today has been anything but easy, but I’ve persevered, conscious of this pain as a reminder of just how precious life is.

  But I couldn’t help but wonder about who had written to my mother. It was signed “Namiya General Store.” Who was this person? What is a “general store”?

  Only recently, I read on the Internet that you ran a general store—whatever that means—and gave advice to anyone who asked. I read about it on someone’s blog. They were reminiscing about their experience with you. I wondered if there were other people out there, and when I looked, I found this post.

  Mr. Namiya, I’m deeply grateful for the advice you gave my mother. I’ve wanted to find a way to tell you for so long. Thank you so much. I can finally say with confidence that I’m happy I was born.

  —The daughter of Green River

  PS. This friend of mine became a famous singer. She’s a musical genius and one of the most celebrated artists in Japan. I’m working as her manager. She is also trying to pay someone back for their sacrifice.

  5

  Takayuki folded up the sheaf of pages and returned them to their envelope.

  “That’s great. Your advice hit the mark.”

  But Yuji shook his head.

  “Like I said, what matters most is how much effort you put in. I was worried my advice could have ruined someone’s life, but it seems like nothing a simple old man could have said was going to sway things either way. I got myself worked up for nothing.”

  Takayuki could see his father was at peace.

  “These letters are a real gift, Dad. You gotta hang on to these.”

  Yuji looked pensive. “No, I want you to take them for me.”

  “What?”

  “All of them. Keep them safe for me.”

  “You want me to keep them? Why?”

  “Son, you know I don’t have long to go. If I hold on to these and someone gets their hands on them, all hell would break loose. These letters are full of stories from the future.”

  Takayuki groaned. His father had a point. He was right, impossible as it may have sounded.

  “How long should I hold on to them?”

  This time, Yuji was the one who let out a low moan. “I guess until I’m gone.”

  “All right. How about I put them in your coffin? That way they’ll be burned.”

  “Perfect.” Yuji slapped his knee. “Let’s go with that.”

  Takayuki nodded and looked back to the rows of letters. He couldn’t believe these had come from people from the future.

  “Dad,” he asked, “what’s this ‘Internet’ thing all about?”

  “Ah, that.” Yuji pointed a finger in the air. “That was bugging me, too. It comes up in a bunch of these. ‘I saw your post on the Internet.’ That and something they keep calling a cell phone.”

  “A cell phone? What the hell is that?”

  “No clue. They made it sound like some kind of futuristic newspaper.” Yuji narrowed his eyes and looked at Takayuki. “Did you read that letter I gave you in the car? It sounds like you circulated it pretty well.”

  “On an Internet, or a cell phone?”

  “Looks that way.”

  Takayuki looked unenthusiastic. “I’m not so sure I want to get involved with that. Gives me the creeps.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’ll figure it out. All right, let’s get going.”

  Then it happened. They heard a faint sound out in the store. The sound of paper falling. Takayuki met eyes with Yuji.

  “Sounds like there’s another one,” Yuji noted.

  “A letter?”

  “Yep,” he nodded. “Go check.”

  “Okay.” Takayuki went out into the store. They hadn’t cleaned things out yet; the shelves were still partially stocked.

  A cardboard box sat up against the shutter. He peeked inside and found a folded sheet of paper. It looked like stationery. He picked it up and took it back to the tatami room. “Must’ve been this.”

  Yuji unfolded the letter. A look of bewilderment came over his face.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Takayuki.

  Lips pursed, Yuji showed the letter to his son.

  “Whoa!” There was nothing written on the paper. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Think it’s a prank?”

  “Maybe. Still—” Yuji glared down at the paper. “I have a feeling that it isn’t.”

  “What is it, then?”

  Yuji put the letter on the tabletop and crossed his arms. “Might be from somebody who hasn’t found a solution to their problem yet. Maybe they’re still struggling with something and can’t figure out what to say.”

  “But why send an empty sheet of paper?”

  Yuji turned to Takayuki. “Excuse me, but would you mind waiting outside?”

  Takayuki blinked. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to respond, I suppose.”

  “To that? There’s nothing to respond to! What is there to say?”

  “That’s what I need to figure out.”

  “When? Now?”

  “Don’t let me keep you. You go on ahead.”

  Yuji sounded serious, and Takayuki gave in.

  “All right, just hurry up.”

  “Uh-huh,” replied Yuji. He was already lost in thought.

  Takayuki walked down the alley to the car. It wasn’t as bright outside as he expected. Strange. It felt like they’d been in that house for a while.

  He got into the Civic and started to stretch out his neck, twisting it this way and that, when the sky started to visibly brighten, as if sped up.

  Maybe time really did flow differently inside that house. He resolved to keep that little revelation from his sister and his wife. They wouldn’t believe him anyway.

  He sat in the car, yawning one yawn after another. A sound came from the direction of the house, and Yuji appeared at the end of the alley. He was hobbling along with his cane, in no particular hurry. Takayuki got out of the car and went around to the passenger-side door.

  “Finished?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, where is it?”

  “Where else? In the milk crate.”

  “Is that enough for them to get it?”

  “They’ll get it. I have a hunch.”

  Takayuki looked skeptical. It was as if his father were some other creature, not human.

  Once they were both in the car, Takayuki asked him, “How’d you answer that blank letter anyway?”

  Yuji shook his head. “I can’t tell you. You know that.”

  Takayuki shrugged and turned the key.

  Just as the car started to move, Yuji said, “Wait a second.”

  Takayuki slammed the brakes.

  Yuji’s eyes were locked on the store—his life and livelihood for decade upon decade. And this hadn’t been your usual small business, either. It was hard to say good-bye.

  “All right,” he almost whispered. “Go ahead.”

  “Did you get what you needed?”

  “I’ve done what I needed to do.”

  Yuji sat back and closed his eyes.

  Takayuki started up the Civic.

  6

  It was a shame the letters on the sign were so dirty, but he snapped the shutter anyway. He tried a few more shots from different angles. He wasn’t any good with cameras, and he couldn’t know if an
y of them would turn out to be any good, but that didn’t really matter. He wasn’t going to show them to people anyway.

  Gazing at the ancient building from across the street, Takayuki thought back to what had happened there a year ago. To the night he’d visited the store with Yuji.

  It didn’t feel like it was real. Sometimes he wondered if it had been a dream.

  Had letters really come here from the future? The two of them had never spoken about that night.

  But the ream of letters he’d put into his father’s casket were cold, hard fact. His sister, Yoriko, had asked him about it. “What’s with all the letters?” He didn’t try to answer.

  Yet, the way Yuji died was the strangest part. They had been told he could die any day now, but his life force seemed as if it were stretching on indefinitely, ever thinner without breaking, like the slimy strings of natto, or fermented soybeans. He rarely ate and most days barely woke up, but he lived around another year. It was as if time had slowed down inside his body.

  Lost in thought, he came to his senses when he heard a voice.

  “Um, excuse me?”

  He turned to see a tall young woman dressed in exercise gear. She was standing in the street before him, holding up a bike. A gym bag was strapped down on the seat mounted over the back tire.

  “Hi. How can I help you?”

  Hesitant, the woman asked, “Do you happen to know a Mr. Namiya?”

  “I’m his son. This used to be his shop.”

  She opened her mouth wide with surprise and blinked. “Oh, I see.”

  “Had you been to the shop?”

  “Yes, I mean, not as a customer, unfortunately.” She looked down at the street, hunched over in wordless apology.

  Takayuki nodded, putting things together. “You came here for advice, then.”

  “I did,” she said. “It made a huge difference in my life.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. How long ago was this?”

  “Well, it must have been November of last year.”

  “Last November?”

  “Is this store closed for good?” she asked, looking over at the shutter.

  “Well, after my father passed away…”

  She caught her breath in surprise, and her eyebrows drooped. “He did? When?”

  “Last month.”

  “Oh, that’s… I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Takayuki nodded. He looked at the gym bag. “You an athlete?”

  “I’m a fencer.”

  “Fencing! Wow.” Takayuki was not expecting this.

  “Most people aren’t used to meeting fencers,” she said with a chuckle and straddled her bike. “Sorry to have bothered you. Take care.”

  “Oh, okay. Thanks again.”

  Takayuki watched the woman disappear at the bottom of the street. A fencer. Not something you saw every day. More like once every four years in the Olympics. Even then, you saw only the highlights. But this year, Japan had boycotted Moscow, so he hadn’t even seen it then.

  The woman had said she got her letter last November, but she must have been confused. By then, Yuji was already laid up in the hospital.

  Takayuki thought of something and walked across the street, down the alley alongside the house. He lifted the lid of the milk crate.

  Nothing. Where had the letter Yuji wrote that strange night the year before gone? Did his response to the empty sheet of paper really make it to the future?

  7

  September 2012.

  Shungo Namiya sat in front of the computer, at a loss. He probably shouldn’t do this. If something went wrong and he made a mess, it was going to look really bad. He was on his family’s laptop, which made it even worse. If the police traced it back, they’d have him in a second. The penalties for cybercrime were crazy, much worse than you’d expect.

  But he didn’t think Takayuki would have asked him to do anything wrong. Even at the very end, he hadn’t been the least bit senile. When he asked Shungo to do the favor, his voice had been steady and clear.

  Takayuki was his grandfather, who had passed away at the end of last year. Stomach cancer. Takayuki’s own father had died of cancer, too. Maybe his whole family had cancer in their genes.

  Before Takayuki had been moved into the hospital, he called Shungo to his room and asked him for a small favor, but it had to stay between the two of them.

  “What is it?” Shungo asked. His curiosity got the better of him.

  “You’re getting pretty good with computers, right?”

  “I guess you could say that.” He was in the math club at his middle school. They used computers all the time.

  Takayuki pulled out a sheet of paper. “Next September, I want you to take what’s written here and put it on the Internet.”

  Shungo took the piece of paper and looked it over. This was so weird.

  “Hey, what is this?”

  Takayuki shook his head. “Don’t worry about that. Just figure out a way to spread this to as many people as you can. You know how to do that, right?”

  “Yeah, I mean, I guess so.”

  “Truth be told, I was supposed to do this myself. I promised.”

  “Promised who?”

  “My father. Your great-grandfather.”

  “My grandpa’s father…”

  “But listen. I have to go to the hospital, you see. They don’t know how long I’m going to live. That’s why I’m asking for your help.”

  Shungo had no idea what to say. He’d gathered from hearing his parents talk that Takayuki didn’t have much time.

  “Okay,” Shungo said.

  Takayuki nodded over and over again. He was satisfied.

  Before long, Takayuki left this earth. When Shungo attended the tsuya ceremony and funeral, he felt as if he could hear a voice coming from the coffin, saying “I’m counting on you, kid.”

  After that, the promise occupied the forefront of his mind. He wasn’t sure what to do, but before he knew it, it was September.

  Shungo read the paper on the desk beside him. It was the same sheet of paper Takayuki had given him.

  On September 13, from exactly midnight until daybreak, the advice box of the Namiya General Store will be reopening for one night only. We kindly ask that anyone who has ever asked for and received advice to give us your unfiltered opinion. How did it affect your life? Did you find it useful, or was it useless? Please leave your letters in the mail slot in the shutter, just like old times. We look forward to hearing from you.

  Takayuki had given Shungo something else with the piece of paper: a photograph of the Namiya General Store, his great-grandfather’s shop. Shungo had never been, but he’d been told the building was still there.

  Takayuki had told him his family used to run a general store, but that was all he knew.

  What was this about “advice”? And what did it mean by reopening?

  He’d really better back out now. If he opened a Pandora’s box, the undo button wouldn’t save him.

  Shungo turned off the computer, about to close the screen, but something caught his eye.

  It was the wristwatch, set up in a display box on the corner of the desk. His grandpa Takayuki had left it to him as an heirloom. As the story goes, Takayuki’s own father had given him the watch when he went off to college. By now, it was so old that it lost five minutes every day.

  Shungo glared into his monitor. He saw his face reflected against its surface. His face, and the face of his grandfather. They overlapped and merged into one.

  There was a promise he had to keep. Man-to-man.

  Shungo turned on the computer.

  CHAPTER 4

  A MOMENT OF SILENCE FOR THE BEATLES

  1

  Exiting the station and heading down the street of shops, Kosuke Waku felt an unsettling feeling creep across his chest. He was right. Just as he’d feared, hard times hadn’t spared this town. There was a time when people had flocked here to settle down and turned the station and its neighboring s
hops into a hub of commerce, but that was in the 1970s. It was now forty years later. Times had changed. Out in the countryside, shuttered businesses marked the streets, and this old town was no exception.

  He walked along, checking for things from his past. He thought he would remember almost nothing, but to his surprise, he recognized all kinds of places once he was actually there.

  But it wasn’t as if the town was completely unchanged. The fish shop his mother frequented had vanished from the street. What was it even called? That’s right—Uomatsu. The owner had a deep-brown suntan. He was always calling enthusiastically out to passing customers: “Hey, missus, our oysters today are unbeatable. Do yourself a favor and buy a dozen; your husband will thank me later.”

  What happened to that guy? He thought he heard somewhere that his son was going to take over, but the memory was blurred. Maybe he had it mixed up with some other store.

  Down the road, he figured he was close enough and turned right onto a side street, unsure if he would ever make it to where he was heading.

  The street was poorly lit, but he walked on. There were street lights, but not all of them were on. After the big earthquake the previous year, Japan had imposed national restrictions on energy use. Having enough light to see your feet was now considered plenty.

  The neighborhoods had been built up extensively since he was a kid. He faintly remembered hearing talk of the town’s ambitious plans for development when he was in elementary school. He could still hear one of his classmates excitedly cheering “We’re getting our own movie theater!”

  Those plans could basically be considered a success to a certain extent. Eventually, the town made it to the Japanese asset price bubble, and for a time, it became a popular commuter town for those working in Tokyo.

  The street he was on came to a T-shaped intersection. This was not unexpected. In fact, it was just as he remembered it. Kosuke turned right again.

  A little farther, and the street started sloping gradually uphill. This, too, was how he remembered it. He was almost there—as long as what he’d read hadn’t been bogus.