Slow Boat

by Hideo Furukawa

  “He is?” I ask, taking my first bite.

  My taste buds go wild for her Kyoto-style sablefish. The others love it, too. The Hindu inhales his helping; the Taoist is literally tearing up; the Romanian Christian cuts his fish neatly, then puts it away with the silence of the Black Sea.

  “Yeah, he’s alive but… Hmph!”

  What? What is that? Hmph?

  Did something bad happen? Sounds like it.

  Am I supposed to ask? Probably not. Let it go… She’s a knife-wielding teenager.

  But I feel the temptation.

  I clear my throat. Then ask—softly:

  “Is it… complicated?”

  “Nope.”

  Right back to work. Sharpening her trusty sashimi knife while humming the theme song from Sazae-san.

  Of course, her presence in Kate wasn’t sanctioned by the Governor of Tokyo. She was “unlicensed”. Yeah. Nice ring to it.

  Kate had to work around her schedule. We called last order early, so her morning commute to school in Kita ward wouldn’t be a strain for her. Our lunch menu was limited to dishes that could be served cold or heated up in the microwave. But that didn’t mean we lowered our standards. Not with her. She kept her eye on the ball. And she really knew her stuff. Me? I was just technically in charge.

  Every day, after school, she hit the kitchen. By five-thirty, everything was ready to go. Then, from six, she was a schoolgirl possessed—by the spirit of the knife.

  God. What a sight.

  Starting on 20th July—Ocean Day—she worked a full load. No more school. One hundred per cent Knife Girl. Did summer break actually come through for once? Under summer’s suspicious auspices, Kate had its second full-time chef.

  During Obon, she tells me, “I was really happy to take my brother’s spot…” She’s wearing goggles and gripping a mini-torch in her left hand. “It got me out of Hatchobori.”

  She triggers the flame and brings the surface of the crème brûlée to a crisp.

  “You mean—there was something?”

  I ask from the double-pump coffee machine.

  “A lot of things…”

  “A lot of things?”

  No answer.

  Well—it came days later. Under her breath: “My dad did a horrible thing…” She was standing by the mixer, fine-tuning a dessert of her own creation, a black sesame shiruko we named “Edgar Allan”. (By the way, this was not Kate’s first homage to the Master of the Macabre. We also had a chocolate cake we called “The Raven”.)

  Taken aback, I say: “A horrible thing?”

  “Yeah… It’s kinda hard to explain. I mean, he never hit me or anything. I just…”

  “Yeah?”

  She shakes her head. “Never mind…”

  “No, never never mind,” says the eavesdropping Hindu.

  “Asshole,” she says with a quick back fist.

  “You’re the one who’s hitting people,” says the Taoist.

  Then she thwacks him with the handle of her sashimi knife. Only the Romanian Christian holds his tongue. A wise decision. Well—he barely understands Japanese, so…

  The Power of Kate. One big happy family. Long live the Trojan Horse!

  Then summer break came to an end. Meaning my teenage chef was back to juggling school and work—not that there was any drop in the quality of her work or whatever. But, wait, there was something I wanted to say about that summer. It wasn’t cursed. It didn’t come to a grinding halt like when I was ten or eleven. It didn’t drag on forever like when I was nineteen. And that got me wondering. Was The Power of Kate working? It looked like it. I mean, I managed to escape Tokyo’s usual havoc, for once. Without even leaving the city.

  We made it through the summer. We did.

  The first-person plural refers to me and my Knife Girl. The tale of my third love stands alone in the annals of my history. This time around, things really begin when the summer ends.

  It was towards the end of September—more than two weeks after she went back to school—when she filled me in on the Hatchobori drama. It was a weirdly quiet day at Kate. One server had food poisoning and called in sick (eel liver was the culprit); another had to go home early (something about “the vault of heaven”?); the last server left right on schedule—without even saying goodbye.

  She and I were the only ones around. She was making the next day’s lunches, and I was—you know—doing the books.

  After her knife-cleaning routine, she started to talk.

  I was at the counter, facing her.

  “I… um…”

  “Huh?”

  “…”

  The only noise in the room was coming from the ventilator.

  “You know, I’ve been playing with blades ever since I was a kid…”

  “Blades?” Meaning knives?

  “Like this.” She lifts up a razor-sharp fish knife, letting it catch the light.

  “In my house, they were always around. I guess I liked the way they sparkled. Legendary blades give off a really intense light… and that caught my eye, or—like—maybe hypnotized me. My dad taught me all the basics. He never stopped to think about how I was just a baby. On my third birthday, I pinned down my own eel, slit it open, gutted it, broiled it and made sushi. I had a fish knife that I used for everything until I was like five. Then I branched out into other blades: sashimi, kamagata, mukimono… I was on TV, on Junior Chef Championship, and came in second. They called me ‘Girl Genius’. I was in second grade, maybe third, but I could scale a fish better than any of the middle-school kids.”

  “Whoa…”

  “It was like child’s play for me. I’ve lived with knives my whole life. I’ve come close to losing a finger so many times I lost track. When everyone else my age was holding a milk bottle, I was gripping my boning knife. This is what I was born to do. That’s why my dream was… going into the family business or whatever…”

  “Like, take over?”

  “Not really. I mean, my brother was around, so I knew I was never going to take my dad’s spot. I just thought—you know—I could open a sister shop or something. All I needed was the family name… or, like, part of it. I wanted to make my living with knives, with food. And I was serious about it. I was really really really into traditional Japanese cooking… Or, like, Edo-style with a modern twist. That was my dream.”

  “Sounds great to me,” I say.

  “To you!” she screams. “I was blind as a Bodhisattva. I totally misinterpreted what my dad was doing. I really thought he cared about me. One day, he looks me right in the eye and says, ‘I know what you’re thinking—but forget it. This business is no place for girls. Believe me, you’ll never make it!’ Just thinking about it makes my blood boil. He didn’t want me in the family business at all. Everything he taught me was just… supposed to make me a better housewife! I mean, are you fucking serious!?”

  “What the fuck…”

  “Right, boss? Maybe he meant well, I dunno, but he swore he’d never let me get behind the counter. I lost my shit. Don’t get me wrong. I know where he’s coming from, I really do. It’s hard for anybody to make it in that world—and the men in this line of work eat women alive… Now more than ever. Before the bubble burst, Hatchobori had it all, tons of places to eat and work—but it’s not like that any more. Now it’s nothing but parking lots. But where else can you go? Nihonbashi? Ningyocho? My dad knew the odds were against me. So he picked me off. Like in baseball. You know? But, but… Aaugh!”

  “It’s OK. Let it out.”

  “Thanks, boss… Yeah, my dad and I collided, we collided head-on. But my brother was there and he stood up for me. He was, like, ‘Yeah, living by the knife is tough… but you’re no softie. You’re tough, you’re a diehard.’ When my dad heard that, he went apeshit. He beat the crap out of my brother—then he disowned him, which was when my brother started having run-ins with the law.”

  Now I get it.

  “When my brother called and told me he hurt his back, I didn�
�t think twice. Of course I was going to look after him. I owe him big, and I hate being at home and… and… and…”

  “And?”

  She runs around the counter, right up to me—knife in hand!

  “… and I love you!” she says, squeezing me tight.

  Huh?

  “Boss—you cut right through me.”

  Say what?

  “You believe in me. I mean, I’m your Knife Girl, right? One hundred per cent? It makes me wanna cry. Just me being here could get you in trouble with the law. But you never even flinched…”

  She’s right about that. I never gave it a thought…

  “I can tell you’ve been fighting too—with everything you’ve got. You’re strong. And you’re protecting me—like my own guardian Śakra. You don’t even know it, but you saved me. Really. You gave me a chance. To fight against this idiotic world. And I’m not gonna give up. I’m not. You know I’m not.”

  Knife Girl versus the World. And I thought Kate was my fortress.

  She had burnt some bridges, too.

  I told her everything I wanted from her. Not as my Knife Girl. As my girl.

  Love.

  She was my third girlfriend. My schoolgirl chef from the east.

  It’s fall, 2000 A.D. We go out. We go places. With phantom 2,000-yen notes stuffed in our wallets. We start in Koenji. We go to see her brother—my first chef. Then we go exploring. We shop for food at Queen’s Isetan, for clothes on Look Street. We buy shirts. A long-sleeve covered in mahjong tiles for me; a short-sleeve with a tarantula print for her. Then we just wander around the area, making fun of all the second-hand stores. Steering clear of Hatchobori, drifting slowly towards the core of Tokyo—Edo? We go east, to eat monja in Tsukishima. The way my grandparents see it, she tells me, this place isn’t Edo… Because it’s reclaimed land or whatever. But the monja tastes great, right? We head back. We savour the view from Aioi Bridge at night. Sumida River, the Harumi Canal. We can see Koto ward in the distance. When we enter Chuo ward, we pick up the faint scent of newly printed books.

  So many sluices.

  So many bridges.

  That’s what we see. When we go out. When Kate is closed. The rest of the time, we’re perfectly happy in our fortress. Kate is our little universe. Our way out of Tokyo, even if we never really leave.

  She was the heart of our fortress. The heart of me.

  Needless to say, there was no happy ending in the cards. The world would beat me down, like it always does. Beat us down? No. Her future was wide open—I was the only one who was going to lose everything.

  Mere moments before everything fell apart, I ran into an old friend. I definitely need to mention him here. Because he wrote the chronicle. He was a really good guy, I swear. But his timing was fucking abysmal—like a soothsayer with nothing soothing to say.

  It was a December afternoon at Kate. I was sitting at the counter, racking my brains over potential logos for the place. I guess I thought Kate could use a new look—for the new century.

  Something like a flag… A declaration of Kate’s independence.

  From Tokyo.

  Then things started getting busy. A ton of orders were coming in and drinks were piling up on the counter. I didn’t serve, as a rule, but I did when things got too hectic. So I checked the orders, then took an espresso to a corner table; I didn’t get a good look at the customer—his face was hidden behind massive fern fronds. But I could tell that he was about my age.

  Him (looking up at me in disbelief): Huh?

  Me: You didn’t want an espresso?

  Him: For real?

  Me: Huh?

  Him: You—you’re… (He says my name. Well, a nickname I had back in high school.)

  Now the disbelief is mine. I give him a good look—when it hits me like a piano.

  Me: Seriously? Nohara?

  Him: In the flesh.

  Nohara and I were in the same grade. Remember what I said before? About high school. About being a quiet kid. About Japanese for idiots. We had our own words. Words that will live forever—when the chronicle of my life is finally put into writing.

  Him: What are you doing here?

  Me: I run this place. What are you doing here?

  Him: You run this place? Wow. You? In business?

  It bothers me how he seems sort of impressed.

  Him: Great work. I guess I’m here for work, too. To cover the place.

  Me: What do you mean?

  I didn’t keep tabs on old classmates (I was too busy working), so I had no idea what Nohara did for a living. “‘The river flows on, but the water is never the same.’ We read that in high school. Remember?” he asks. (Yeah, I remember. Opening lines from The Ten-Foot Hut. Obviously.) Then he pulls a stack of glossy magazines out of his bag.

  Him: I write stuff like this.

  His magazines are full of coloured Post-its, marking the pages with his own articles. He’s a writer now. Does some freelance editing, too. I take a look at his prose… Surprisingly readable. Nowhere near as devious as it used to be. “The pen is not the man,” I guess. Speaking of which…

  Me: What the hell is this name? Kaku Nohara?

  Him: Me.

  Me: I know Nohara. Where did Kaku come from?

  Him: It’s my pen name. Cool, right? Now my full name means “Heartfield…” Teeheehee.

  What the hell is he grinning about?

  Nothing’s changed. Almost like there had been no decade-long blank. If we had a deck of cards, we could have played “Poorest of the Poor”—just the two of us. Like we did in high school. A couple of hours after our chance reunion, we meet up at a local oden place. This time, on purpose. By appointment. When we’re done eating, Nohara puts our private patois on hold for a moment—for the sake of business: “If you’re OK with it, I’d love to write a longer piece about your place. It’ll make a great story.”

  His face tells me that he means it.

  The piece he has in mind, the one he wants me to OK, is tentatively titled: “168 Hours in a Café: Twenty-Four Hours x Seven Days”. As Nohara puts it: a photo-essay on everything that goes on inside a popular café. Yeah, right. Kate’s no fucking café (not to me), and words like “popular” trip my gag reflex… (But, damn… It’s the perfect cover. To help keep my Trojan Horse off the radar. What the hell should I say?) OK, someone just shut me up. I’m way overthinking this.

  “Go for it,” I say.

  I mean, it’s Nohara. I’ve always trusted him. Still do.

  Nohara spent about two weeks working on the piece. I spoke, he wrote. I told him pretty much everything. The truth about Kate. About what Kate meant to me. I was totally honest—on the condition that he left those details out of the final product. Now that I think about it, I guess that was the first time I really told anyone about Kate’s humble origins.

  The story of Kate—transmitted in full. Recorded for posterity. Almost like some sort of sign that all would soon be lost.

  Like it had been fated.

  Why, God?

  Why is the universe teeming with random forces of evil?

  It was December—probably late December. I can’t remember the date, and I’m sure I don’t have to remind you why I forget what I forget. It was a little after ten in the morning, and I was walking down Nakasugi Avenue. Heading for my fortress… Our fortress. But, from a couple of hundred metres away, I could see that something wasn’t right. Kate didn’t look the same. Is the roof…? From where I stood, the lines looked sort of wrong. Kind of like a badly drawn imitation of the real thing.

  Then that old whip cracks. Red alert. Alarm bells ringing. BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.

  Not a good sign.

  I start running.

  Then—the epilogue.

  I hurry to unlock the door and witness the carnage inside. The city stormed my fortress. The ceiling’s punctured in three or four places—holes around fifty centimetres in diameter. My Trojan Horse has been compromised. The sun shoots down through the holes, pointing
fingers of light at the intruders. That’s right. They’re still there.

  This is the epilogue. Counter in pieces, ferns in smithereens, oven useless on its side. Among all the debris, the chunks of ice that did it.

  They were probably three or four massive ice bricks when they hit the roof—before breaking up on impact.

  Our territory was ruined.

  I stumble over to the biggest block of ice. Glistening in the morning sun. I make a fist and I punch that stupid block. Over and over and over.

  And over… and over…

  Until my knuckles bleed.

  Give me back my horse… You motherfucker…

  *

  Following a two-month investigation, the Suginami police conclude that a large amount of ice broke loose from the undercarriage of an American fighter jet and fell out of the sky. They might even have an eyewitness. Someone who saw the crash.

  So fucking what?

  My insurance won’t cover this. Looks like the end.

  BOAT SEVEN

  THIS ISN’T THE FIRST AND YOU KNOW IT’S NOT THE LAST

  Mid-April, 2001. About a year and a half ago. I took my third girlfriend (aka “Knife Girl”) to the airport. I saw her off—like some kind of guardian. I was twenty-five or twenty-six. Pretty sure we looked nothing like lovers.

  Is that because we loved each other too much?

  That March, she graduated from the school in Kita ward where she’d spent the last six years. Next stop: the US, the East Coast, where she could fulfil her destiny. Kate—our Asagaya fortress—had been her destiny, but that place was no more. She needed a new place now. She was a knife girl and she needed to fight. I believed that. So I did some digging. Making connections was surprisingly easy. Nohara put me in touch with an editor working on a project called “A Tale of Three Cities: Japanese Taste Around the World”. After that, it only took three letters, two international calls and one video (showcasing Knife Girl’s literal chops). And the cherry on top: we had the US Ambassador try her cooking and put in a good word, in an unofficial capacity.