Kappa Quartet

by Daryl Qilin Yam

  It was the lady again. Her hair was done in the same style, tied back into a ponytail; she also wore the same white blouse as the last time, and carried the same black leather handbag. But she wore a blue pencil skirt instead of her blood orange culottes, and stepped out of the café after she had received her takeaway Americano. My eyes followed her every move as the lady resumed her position at the bench outside, and like time repeating itself, the same waitress, the one with the younger brother, walked smiling towards my table. Lisa, her name was.

  “Good afternoon, Ms Chiba,” she said. “It’s really nice to see you again.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ve grown reliant on this place. Do you have any new recommendations for me?”

  “Perhaps the peach tea?” she said. “We serve it with ice.”

  “I’ll have that then,” I said. “Thank you, Lisa.”

  Akiko came in at five past two, dressed in a raincoat and a pair of wellingtons. “If you are interested in the final piece of the story, you’ll have to meet up with Ms Kurosawa again,” my agent had informed me. “There’s one last development that only she can tell.”

  The final chapter, or so Akiko put it, had taken place on the Wednesday when Typhoon Guchol was scheduled to pass over Tokyo. Both Akiko and Kawako had decided to stay at home that day, after office memos about the weather had advised all employees to do so. It was the twentieth of June, and Guchol had already battered its way into the southern region the day before. Akiko and Kawako both sat on the couch in the living room, watching the weather worsen from their view of the balcony. They made sure to use as few electrical appliances as possible, and lit a couple of candles for light.

  “I was seated in my pyjamas, and had a light blanket wrapped around my body,” Akiko said to me. “I remember taking note of the expression on my friend’s face as she kept her eyes fixed on the world outside our apartment. I then walked over to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water, and asked if she’d like one as well. She said that she would.”

  Say, Kawako, Akiko had said to her. Can I ask you something hypothetical?

  Sure, Kawako replied.

  Akiko handed her a glass of water. She then asked Kawako what would she do, if Nobuo had suddenly chosen to confess at that moment that he’d always loved her back this whole time?

  Kawako seemed unfazed by the question. Why? she asked Akiko. Had Nobuo said something to her?

  No, no, came her reply. He didn’t. It was just a thought.

  Kawako simply nodded, and Akiko pressed her to give an answer. Well? she asked; what would you say?

  Kawako had remained mum, for several more seconds. She then answered, rather plainly, that she would reject him.

  You would? said Akiko.

  Yes, said Kawako. I would reject him. Even though I still love him. Even now?

  Kawako nodded again. It’s my curse, I think.

  Akiko set her glass of water down. Outside, the windowpane on the balcony door shuddered as the winds grew stronger. The bright green leaves of the cherry trees thrashed about, wildly, like small hands trying to reach and catch something in the air. (Always the poetic inclination, I thought to myself.)

  It’s crazy isn’t it? said Kawako. The way everything is blown about.

  Yeah, said Akiko.

  You know that café you went to with Nobuo? The one you can see from the balcony? She pointed. It used to be a bookstore, said Kawako; before the café opened last winter. The bookstore stood in its place, for as long as I can remember. It’s always been there, even when my father was a little boy.

  She turned back to Akiko.

  It was his favourite place in the whole world. He even said that the bookstore had the knack to provide you with any book that you might need.

  Really? said Akiko. Any book?

  Kawako nodded. Even books that you didn’t think you needed before, she’d explained. Apparently the old couple that ran it had the gift of picking books they thought were truly meant for you.

  Akiko felt intrigued. She asked Kawako if she had ever gone into this bookstore, and Kawako said that she hadn’t. She said that over the years, the bookstore had developed a bad feeling about it. It always looked as though it was steeped in shadows. From the balcony, all she could ever see of the bookstore was probably the side of the cash register, or maybe even a few bookshelves or two. But nothing else. That, and she never really liked books, anyway.

  That’s true, said Akiko; Kawako used to complain about her reading assignments, back when they were at Waseda. And then a thought occurred to her, just as she looked at the café now standing on the opposite side of the river.

  Hey Kawako, she’d said.

  Yes?

  Has your father ever told you about this particular woman he saw before? Standing on the other side of the river?

  Kawako shook her head. What woman was this?

  Someone whom he saw when he was younger, she replied. Someone very beautiful, apparently. He also said she had a very bright soul.

  Kawako frowned. She failed to recall a story of that sort. She asked Akiko when her father had told it to her, and Akiko said that it happened during her nineteenth birthday, when the power had gone out. She said, That was the only time I ever met your father, actually. The both of us so happened to be standing next to each other, right there in Nobuo’s living room.

  And this woman had a bright soul, he said?

  Yes, said Akiko: a terribly, terribly bright soul. He told me about this woman because he said that I reminded him of her.

  Really?

  Yeah.

  Kawako fell silent. After a spell, she said: My father always had a tendency to tell people the strangest things. All my life I never had the faintest clue as to what he did for a living. But a part of me thinks it’s probably best I don’t know. I feel like only people with problems of a certain nature would come to him for advice, and those who are perfectly fine and normal would not even know that somebody like him existed.

  Kawako then finished her water, and sat the glass down next to Akiko’s. Akiko hadn’t even drunk from hers yet. She then realised that for the past half-minute, Kawako had been looking directly into her eyes.

  Hey Akiko, she said; do you feel like your life doesn’t belong to you sometimes? That nothing you do, no matter how hard you try, will have any real consequences at all? Do you ever feel like there’s no point to anything?

  Neither of them said anything for a while. Akiko then looked away again, her gaze returning to the view from the balcony. The café swam in and out of view, between the leaves of the cherry trees. And then the rain started to fall.

  Lisa the waitress came by again, after Akiko had taken her leave. She asked if she could clear the empty glasses from the table, and I said that she could. She then asked if I had enjoyed the peach tea.

  “Yes,” I said. “We both did.”

  The young waitress smiled. “I’m glad you found it to your taste,” she said. Just before she could turn, however, I laid a hand on her arm. “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  “Of course, Ms Chiba.”

  “Do you know anything about the lady seated outside?” I gestured towards her back. The lady with the ponytail, unaware of the fact that we were talking about her, held her iced Americano in her two, slim hands.

  “Oh,” the waitress said. “We know that she’s a foreigner, and that she can only speak English. She always orders a cup of Americano, and sits outside for a long time. Sometimes she sits there for more than an hour, long after her coffee is finished.”

  “Why, though?” I asked.

  “I don’t have a clue,” the waitress said.

  “You never had the courage to ask?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” she said. “I can barely speak English at all. I’ve forgot most of it since high school.”

  I remained silent for a while. If I were Nobuo, I thought, I wouldn’t have any qualms about approaching her at all. He was the kind of guy who would never let a girl sli
p by, just because he felt embarrassed or shy. The waitress then clapped her hands.

  “Oh, Ms Chiba—there’s one thing that I do remember about her.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “The first time she came to our café, she asked if this place used to be a bookstore.”

  “Did she?”

  The waitress nodded. “She apparently came to our café under the impression that it was supposed to be one. We then told her that we’d never heard of this bookstore before, and confirmed to her that she had gotten the right address. We told her that the bookstore must have closed down at the start of the year, before this café took over the premises. After that, for some reason, she’s been here ever since.”

  “I see,” I said. “Actually, could I order a cup of iced tea to go, please?”

  “Sure thing,” said the waitress, with a curious look on her face. “I’ll be right back with your order.”

  I stepped through the door. I had my umbrella in one hand; I could feel the rain on the pavement, splashing onto the open toes of my sandals. I then quickly went under the shelter of the awning, and took a seat beside the lady on the bench. The lady took notice of me, and shifted a little to the side. She placed her handbag on her lap. Both of us remained quiet for a while, as we observed the rain falling onto the trees and the bushes and the river, swelling up high in the canal. I thought of a way to break the silence: I began by talking about the weather.

  She seemed pleasantly surprised. “You can speak English?” she said. Upon a closer look, I could see that I had been right: she was in her late forties, after all, but she had a small, youthful-looking face, marked by fine lines at the corner of her eyes. And her voice, I couldn’t help but note, was deep and assured.

  “Just a little,” I said. “I went to an international high school in Hawaii. I then majored in American literature at university. I read a lot of Willa Cather, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Faulkner.”

  “All in English, I suppose.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s wonderful,” the lady said. “I’ve never read those writers myself. In fact, I hardly read at all.”

  “Oh?” I said. It was a surprising thing for her to say. Why would someone uninterested in reading be in search of an old bookstore in Tokyo? I couldn’t figure it out. “Is this your first time in Japan?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said the lady. “My very first time.”

  “And where are you from?”

  She pursed her lips, and tilted her head to the side. “I’m from somewhere else,” she said. “Somewhere not too far away.” She looked out onto the view. “This is the Meguro River, isn’t it?”

  I told her it was. She smiled.

  “It’s nice,” she said. “I wish there were more rivers like these back home. Big, wide canals. Sitting here, I can’t help but look at the cherry trees as well. Imagine how they must look like during the spring.”

  “They are very pretty,” I said. “White blossoms everywhere.”

  “That’s nice,” she said again. “I’ve only ever seen the spring once, and I’ll never forget it.”

  “Once?”

  She nodded. “I was with my son, Kevin. We were on holiday in Kunming, which is a fairly small city in China.” She looked at me. “You know China, yes? What about Kunming?” She chuckled. “Kunming is in the southwest region, I think. We were in a park, where there were hundreds of cherry trees, all in bloom.” She waved her hand before her, as though tracing out a rainbow. “It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

  A slight pause. “You have a son?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Just one. I’m here because of him, actually.”

  “You are?”

  She nodded again. “The last time he was in Japan, he said he got to see so many wonderful things, and that he went to so many wonderful places. I guess I’m here so that I can understand him better.”

  I asked if he had come here before, pointing to the café behind us.

  “He did,” the lady said, “except this used to be a bookstore.” She looked over her shoulder. “My son was here on a trip last December, and when he got to travel around Tokyo, he asked the tour guide if he could excuse himself, just so he could pay a visit to this place. And that’s what he did.” She then opened up her handbag. She handed me a notebook from inside it.

  “Take a look,” she said.

  I opened the notebook. It was slim, probably only fifty pages thick, with an unadorned black cover. There was barely anything written inside, save for the first couple of pages, in which her son had made a few notes about the places he’d been to in Japan. At the corner of a page I saw a tiny illustration of Mount Fuji, next to a date in December. At another corner I saw a name: Mr Alvin.

  “Apparently there was a rumour going around that the bookstore could grant you any book that you would need,” the lady explained. “An urban legend, he said. All you had to do was step inside, and ask the owner for a recommendation. Whatever book you got would be the only book you needed for the rest of your life.”

  I asked her if an old couple had been running the place.

  “I don’t think so,” the lady replied. “I think he said it was just an old woman, tending the cash register. Nobody else.”

  “I see,” I said. I then asked her what book her son had gotten from the owner. She smiled.

  “It was this very notebook,” she said. “The one you’re holding in your hands.”

  “But,” I said, feeling a little shocked. I flipped through the rest of the notebook, to see if there was anything more in it. “There’s nothing here,” I said.

  Her smile faltered, by just a little. “Exactly,” said the lady.

  4

  PERDIDO

  OCTOBER 2012

  LISA

  It was a quarter to eight when the phone rang. I had just come home from work and my stepbrother Junpei was in the living room, sitting by the kotatsu reading Chiba Mari’s manuscript. Judging from the scene, he must have spent the entire day in the same spot, reading up to what seemed like three quarters of the draft. “I have a feeling it’s for you,” Junpei said, without lifting his eyes off the page. I walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver.

  “Yo,” the voice said. “Have you had dinner?”

  “No, not yet. I just came home, actually.”

  Junpei’s posture stiffened.

  “Is that Takao?” asked Junpei. Before I could reply to him I heard Takao again, his Kagoshima accent clear through the speaker.

  “Was that voice Jun?” he said.

  I told him it was.

  “Has he had dinner?” he asked.

  I turned towards Junpei, and asked if he had. He told me he hadn’t, as I expected. “I was waiting for you to return, actually. I’m sorry.” I turned back to the phone and asked Takao if he’d heard all that.

  “You bet I did.” He sounded excited. “Why don’t the two of you join me for dinner, then? I know of a great place by Nishiarai station. Friend’s recommendation. I think the both of you will like it.”

  I caught Junpei flipping a page of the manuscript. “Does Takao want us to eat with him?” he asked.

  I nodded. “You up for it?”

  Junpei narrowed his eyes. “Is it nabe again?”

  “I would think so,” I said. “If it’s Takao, it’s definitely nabe.” I let my hand go from the receiver. “It’s nabe, isn’t it?”

  “It is, kiddo.”

  “It’s nabe,” I said to Junpei. Junpei kept up his stare for about three seconds before he shrugged his shoulders.

  “Why not,” he said.

  I told Takao that Junpei was in, and he relayed instructions for us to meet at Horikiri station in half an hour. “I’m starving,” he added. I told him we’d meet him soon.

  I waited by the front door as Junpei got changed in his room upstairs. He came down in a blue cardigan worn over a yellow shirt, and a pair of oversized jeans with the cuffs rolled up. It wa
s the second day of October, and everyone in the city could feel the autumn chill returning whenever it got dark. Junpei asked if it was cold outside; he’d lost all sense of the weather that day, staying cooped up in the house, and I told him that what he wore was enough.

  “I don’t know what’s so good about nabe,” Junpei said, as we wound down the alleyway towards the station. “Doesn’t Takao ever get sick of it?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. We walked past a large three-storey house, from which you could hear the notes of somebody practicing on the piano. “How long have we known Takao already?”

  “Around one and a half years?” he said.

  “And have we ever seen Takao getting sick of nabe?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Junpei.

  “Well there you go,” I said. “History has all the answers. Just think of it as a hobby of his, like how some guys are obsessed with trains and blow-up dolls and stuff like that.”

  “But instead of trains and blow-up dolls, Takao’s obsessed with nabe.”

  “That’s right. Although ‘obsessed’ might be too strong a word for it. It’s a lot like you and reading, actually,” I said. “You just can’t get enough, can you? And you’re always on the lookout for the next big thing.”

  “That’s true,” said Junpei, nodding along. We were walking past another big house this time, except this one was a bit run-down, with vines cascading down the front. From it came the screams and laughter of an evening variety programme. “Don’t you ever get sick of it?” he asked.

  “Of nabe?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I think it’d break Takao’s heart if I ever got to that point.”

  Junpei rolled his eyes. “Stop it,” he said. “Just stop.”

  Takao was there as he said he would be: standing outside the main entrance to the station, leaning against a vending machine. Like us, he too was dressed rather casually, decked in a baseball jacket one size too small for his frame. I couldn’t tell which team it was, but its colours were red and white with the number five stitched on its back. We caught his eye and he waved at us, gesturing towards the ticket barriers.