The second incident took place around the same time, and also had to do with jazz. I was in a used-record store near the Berklee School of Music one afternoon, checking out the records. Rummaging around in old shelves of LPs is one of the few things that makes life worth living, as far as I’m concerned. On that particular day I’d located a used copy of Pepper Adams’s recording for Riverside called 10 to 4 at the 5 Spot. It was a live recording of the Pepper Adams Quintet, with Donald Byrd on trumpet, recorded in New York at the Five Spot jazz club. “10 to 4,” of course, meant ten minutes till four o’clock, meaning that they played such a hot set they went on till dawn. This copy of the album was a first pressing, in mint condition, and was going for only seven or eight dollars. I owned the Japanese version of the record and had listened to it so much it was all scratched. Finding an original recording in this good shape and at this price seemed, to exaggerate a little, like a minor miracle. I was overjoyed as I bought the record, and just as I was exiting the shop a young man passed me and asked, “Hey, do you have the time?” I glanced at my watch and automatically answered, “Yeah, it’s ten to four.”
After I said this I noticed the coincidence and gulped. What in the world is going on? I wondered. Was the god of jazz hovering in the sky above Boston, giving me a wink and a smile and saying, “Yo, you dig it?”
Neither one of these incidents was anything special. It wasn’t like my life turned in a new direction. I was simply struck by the strange coincidences—that things like this actually do happen.
Don’t misunderstand me—I’m not the sort of person who’s into occult phenomena. Fortune-telling doesn’t do a thing for me. Instead of going to the trouble of having a fortune-teller read my palm, I think I’m better off trying to rack my brain for a solution to whatever problem I have. Not that I have a brilliant mind or anything, just that this seems a quicker way to find a solution. I’m not into paranormal powers either. Transmigration, the soul, premonitions, telepathy, the end times—I’ll pass. I’m not saying I don’t believe in any of these. No problem with me if they really do exist. I’m just personally not interested. Still, a significant number of strange, out-of-left-field kinds of things have colored my otherwise humdrum life.
The story I’m about to tell is one a friend of mine told me. I happened to tell him once about my own two episodes, and afterward he sat there for a time with a serious look on his face and finally said, “You know, something like that happened to me, too. Something that coincidence led me to. It wasn’t something totally weird, but I can’t really explain it. At any rate, a series of coincidences took me somewhere I never expected to be.”
I’ve changed some of the facts to protect people’s identities, but other than that the story is just as he related it.
My friend works as a piano tuner. He lives in the western part of Tokyo, near the Tama River. He’s forty-one, and gay. He doesn’t especially hide the fact that he’s gay. He has a boyfriend three years younger than he is. The boyfriend works in real estate and because of his job isn’t able to come out, so they live apart. My friend might be a lowly piano tuner but he graduated from the piano department of a music college and is an impressive pianist himself. His forte is modern French composers—Debussy, Ravel, and Erik Satie—and he plays them with a deep expressiveness. But Francis Poulenc is his favorite.
“Poulenc was gay,” he explained to me one day. “And he made no attempt to hide it. Which was a pretty hard thing to do in those days. He said this once: ‘If you took away my being homosexual my music never would have come about.’ I know exactly what he means. He had to be as true to his homosexuality as he was to his music. That’s music, and that’s life.”
I’ve always liked Poulenc’s music, too. When my friend comes over to tune my old piano I sometimes have him run through a few short Poulenc pieces when he’s finished. The “French Suite,” the “Pastoral,” and so on.
He “discovered” he was gay after entering music college. Before then he never once considered the possibility. He was handsome, well brought up, had a calm demeanor, and was popular with the girls in his high school. He never had a steady girlfriend, but he did go out on dates. He loved walking with a girl, gazing at her hairdo close-up, the fragrance of her neck, holding her delicate hand in his. But he never experienced sex. After several dates with a girl he’d start to sense that she was hoping he’d take the initiative and do something, but he never was able to take the next step. He never felt anything inside driving him to do so. Without exception the other guys around him wrestled with their own sexual demons, some of them struggling with them, others plunging ahead and giving in, but he never felt the same kind of urges. Maybe I’m just a late bloomer, he figured. Or maybe I just haven’t met the right girl yet.
In college he went out with a girl in the same year in the percussion department. They enjoyed talking, and whenever they were together they felt close. Not long after they met they had sex in her room. She was the one who led him on. They’d had a few drinks. The sex went off smoothly, though it wasn’t as thrilling and satisfying as everybody said. In fact he found the act rough, grotesque even. And the faint odor the girl gave off when she got sexually aroused turned him off. He much preferred just talking with her, playing music together, sharing a meal. As time passed, having sex with her became a burden.
Still, he just thought he was indifferent to sex. But one day…No, I think I’ll skip this part. It’ll take too long, and really isn’t connected to the story I want to tell. Let’s just say that something took place and he discovered that he was, unmistakably, gay. He didn’t want to make up some excuse so he came right out and told her. Within a week the news had spread to all his friends. He lost a few of them, and things grew difficult between him and his parents, but in the final analysis it was good it all came out. He wasn’t the type who could have hid who he really was.
What hurt the most, though, was how this affected his relationship with the person he was closest to in his family, his sister, who was two years older. When her fiancé’s family heard about his coming out it looked like the marriage might be canceled, and though they were able to persuade the man’s parents and finally get married, the whole thing nearly gave his sister a nervous breakdown, and she got incensed at her brother. Why did you have to pick this time in my life to make waves? she yelled at him. Her brother naturally defended himself, but after this they grew apart, and he even passed on attending her wedding.
He mostly enjoyed his life as a gay man living alone. Other than those who had a physical revulsion to gays, most people liked him—he was, after all, always well dressed, kind, and courteous, with a nice sense of humor and winning smile. He was good at his job, so he had a large list of clients and a steady income. Several famous pianists insisted on having him tune their instruments. He purchased a two-bedroom apartment near a university and had nearly paid off the mortgage. He owned an expensive stereo system, was a skilled organic chef, and kept himself in shape by working out five days a week at a gym. After going out with a number of men, he met his present partner and had been enjoying a settled sexual relationship with him for nearly a decade.
On Tuesdays he’d cross over the Tama River in his green, stick-shift Honda convertible sports car and go to an outlet mall in Kanagawa Prefecture. The mall had all the typical big-box stores—the Gap, Toys R Us, the Body Shop. On weekends the place was packed and you could barely find a parking spot, but on weekday mornings the mall was nearly deserted. He’d head to a large bookstore at the mall, buy a book that caught his eye, then spend a pleasant few hours sipping coffee and reading in a café. That was the way he spent his Tuesdays.
“The mall’s hideous,” he told me, “but that café is the exception—a very comfortable little place. I just happened to run across it. They don’t play any music, it’s all nonsmoking, and the chairs are perfect for reading. Not too hard, not too soft. And there’s never anybody there. I don’t imagine on a Tuesday morning you’d find many people heading fo
r a café. Even if they were, they’d probably go to the nearby Starbucks.”
So Tuesday mornings find him in that café, lost in a book, from just past ten till one. At one he heads to a nearby restaurant, has a lunch of tuna salad and Perrier, then goes to the gym to work out. That’s a typical Tuesday.
On that particular Tuesday morning he was reading, as usual, in the nearly empty café. Charles Dickens’s Bleak House. He’d read it many years ago, and when he spied it on a bookshelf decided to try it again. He had a clear memory of it as an interesting read, though he couldn’t for the life of him remember the plot. Dickens had always been one of his favorite writers. Reading Dickens made the world fade away. From the first page he found himself completely absorbed by the story.
After an hour’s concentrated reading, though, he felt tired. He closed his book, put it on top of his table, signaled the waitress for a refill, and went to the restroom outside the café. When he returned to his seat, a woman at the next table, who was also reading, spoke to him.
“I’m sorry, but do you mind if I ask you a question?” she said.
A somewhat ambiguous smile came to him as he returned her gaze. She was about the same age as he was. “Of course,” he replied.
“I know it’s forward of me to speak like this, but there’s something I’ve been wondering about,” she said, blushing slightly.
“It’s fine. I’m in no hurry, go right ahead.”
“By any chance is that book you’re reading by Dickens?”
“It is,” he said, picking up the book and showing it to her. “Bleak House.”
“I thought so,” she said, clearly relieved. “I glanced at the cover and thought it might be that book.”
“Are you a fan of Bleak House, too?”
“I am. What I mean is, I’ve been reading the same book. Right next to you, just by coincidence.” She took the plain paper wrapping off the book, the kind bookstores put on if you like, and showed him the cover.
It was definitely a surprising coincidence. Imagine—on a weekday morning, in a deserted café in a deserted shopping mall two people happen to be sitting right next to each other, reading the same exact book. And this wasn’t some worldwide best seller but Charles Dickens. And not even one of his better-known works. This strange and startling chance meeting took both of them by surprise, but it also helped them overcome the awkwardness of a first encounter.
The woman lived in a new housing development not far from the mall. She’d purchased Bleak House five days ago at the very same bookstore, and when she first sat down at this café to order a cup of tea and opened the book she found she couldn’t stop reading. Before she knew it two hours had passed. She hadn’t been so absorbed in reading since she was in college.
She was petite and, although not overweight, was starting to put on a bit of extra flesh in all the typical places. She had a large bust and an attractive face. Her clothes were tasteful, and looked a little on the expensive side. The two of them chatted for a while. The woman was in a book club and their book of the month happened to be Bleak House. One of the women in the club was a great fan of Dickens and had suggested that novel as their next reading. The woman in the café had two children (two girls, a third grader and a first grader) and normally found it hard to find any time to read. Though sometimes she was able to get out of the house like this and carve out some time. Most of the people she dealt with every day were the mothers of her children’s classmates, and their topics of conversation were limited to TV dramas and gossip about their children’s teachers, so she had joined a local book club. Her husband used to be quite a reader himself, though now work kept him so busy that he was lucky to have time to glance through a few business books now and then.
He told her a little about himself. That he worked as a piano tuner, lived across the Tama River, and was single. He liked this little café so much he drove all the way here once a week just to sit and read. He didn’t mention being gay. He didn’t intentionally hide it, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you tell just anybody.
They had lunch together in a restaurant in the mall. The woman was a very open, honest sort of person. Once she relaxed she laughed a lot—a natural, quiet laugh. Without her putting it into words, he could well imagine the kind of life she’d led till then. She was a pampered daughter of a well-to-do family in Setagaya, attended a decent college, where she got good grades and was popular (more with other girls than with boys, perhaps), married a man three years older than her who was pulling in a good salary, and had two daughters. The girls were attending private school. Her twelve years of marriage hadn’t exactly been all roses, but she had no particular complaints. The two of them had a light lunch and talked about books they’d read recently, music they liked. They talked for about an hour.
“I enjoyed this,” the woman said after they’d finished, and she blushed. “I don’t have anybody I can really talk to.”
“I enjoyed it, too,” he said. And that was the truth.
The next Tuesday, as he sat in the café reading, she showed up again. They greeted each other with a smile and sat at separate tables, both silently delving into their copies of Bleak House. Just before noon she came over to his table and spoke to him, and like the week before they went off to have lunch. I know a cozy little French place nearby, she said, and I was wondering if you’d like to go. There aren’t any decent restaurants in the mall. Sounds good, he agreed, let’s go. They drove to the restaurant in her blue, automatic Peugeot 306, and had watercress salad and grilled sea bass, a glass of white wine. And discussed Dickens’s novel as they ate.
After lunch, as they were driving back to the mall, she stopped the car in a park and took his hand in hers. She wanted to go someplace nice and quiet with him, she said. He was a little surprised at how fast things had developed.
“I’ve never done this kind of thing after I got married. Not even once,” she explained. “But you’re all I’ve thought about this past week. I promise I won’t make any demands, or cause you any trouble. Of course if you don’t find me attractive…”
He gently squeezed her hand, and quietly explained things. If I were an ordinary guy, he said, I’m sure I’d be happy to go with you to someplace nice and quiet. You’re an attractive woman and I know spending time like that with you would be wonderful. But the thing is, I’m gay. So I can’t manage sex with women. Some gay men are able to, but not me. I hope you’ll understand. I can be your friend, but not your lover, I’m afraid.
It took quite a while for her to truly comprehend what he was trying to convey (he was the first homosexual she’d ever met), and after she finally grasped it, she began to cry. Pressing her face against the piano tuner’s shoulder, she cried for a long time. It must have been a shock for her. The poor woman, he thought, then he put his arms around her and caressed her hair.
“Forgive me,” she finally said. “I made you talk about something you didn’t want to talk about.”
“That’s all right. I’m not trying to hide who I am. I guess I should have picked up on where we were headed so there wouldn’t be any misunderstanding. I’m afraid I’m the one who made you feel bad.”
His long, slim fingers gently stroked her hair for a long time, and that gradually had a calming effect. There was a single mole, he noticed, on her right earlobe. The mole called up a childhood memory. His older sister had a mole about the same size, in the same spot. When he was little, he used to playfully rub his sister’s mole when she was asleep, trying to rub it off. His sister would wake up, angry.
“I’ve been excited every day since I met you,” she said. “I haven’t felt this way in a long time. It was great—I felt like a teenager again. So I don’t mind. I went to the beauty salon, went on a quick diet, bought some Italian lingerie…”
“Sounds like I made you waste your money,” he laughed.
“But I think I needed that right now.”
“Needed what?”
“I had to do something to express what I’
m feeling.”
“By buying sexy Italian lingerie?”
She blushed to her ears. “It wasn’t sexy. Not at all. Just very beautiful.”
He beamed and looked in her eyes. He indicated he’d just been joking and that broke the tension. She smiled back, and for a time they gazed deep into each other’s eyes.
He took out his handkerchief and wiped away her tears. She sat up and redid her makeup, checking herself in the sun visor mirror.
“The day after tomorrow I have to go to a hospital in town to get a second examination for breast cancer.” She’d just pulled into the parking lot at the mall and had set the parking brake. “They found a suspicious shadow on my annual X-ray and told me to come in so they can run some more tests. If it really turns out to be cancer I might have to have an operation right away. Maybe that’s why I acted the way I did today. What I mean is…”
She didn’t say anything for a while, and then shook her head vigorously.
“I don’t understand it myself.”
The piano tuner measured her silence for a time. Listening carefully, as if to pick up a faint sound within.
“Almost every Tuesday morning I’ll be here,” he said. “Right here, reading. There’s not much I can do to help, but I’m here if you need somebody to talk to. If you don’t mind talking to somebody like me, that is.”
“I haven’t told anybody about this. Not even my husband.”
He rested his hand on top of hers, on top of the parking brake.
“I’m scared,” she said. “Sometimes so scared I can’t think.”
A blue minivan pulled into the space beside them, an unhappy middle-aged couple emerging. They were arguing about something pointless. Once they had gone, silence returned. Her eyes were closed.
“I’m in no position to hand down any advice,” he said, “but there’s a rule I always follow when I don’t know what to do.”
Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman Page 27
