The Hemingway Files

by H. K. Bush

  The thing is, I remembered that conversation one day with Mika, about the tiny farmer’s market that congregated around one of the train stations near Sensei’s house on Saturdays. She had said she often went there on Saturdays to buy flowers and fresh fruit for Sensei. Just like that, I had hatched my plan. I would go to the market, paperback tucked into my back pocket, and find a decent vantage point from where I could sit nonchalantly and await her arrival. It could all seem like a coincidence, but it would afford me the possibility of talking with her, and possibly meeting on a more regular basis.

  And that’s what I did. By the time I got back to town that day, it was already well past noon, and most of the merchants had begun closing up shop for the day. I sat there for an hour or two, but saw no sign of Mika. Undeterred, the next week I got up very early, took my place between the station and the market and waited. Hours later, as the monotony of the watch began to take its toll, I decided to pack it in. This same procedure was repeated the following Saturday, when there was a bit more chill in the air. After a couple hours, a slight drizzle began falling and a few of the sellers began packing away their wares. I was just on the verge of calling it a morning when I looked up the hill toward the station. There she was. Mika, carrying a canvas bag in each hand, and wearing of all things, blue jeans, a denim shirt, and a large straw hat. Her clothing suggested a new side of her personality, making her appear as American as John Wayne, or at least like someone who might be with the Duke in The Searchers or The Quiet Man.

  I called out, like a loud American, “Mika-san! Hello!” And, as I did so, I jumped up and began walking briskly across the street toward her.

  She hesitated, then smiled. “Jack! What a surprise!” Her smile seemed genuine. “O-hisashi-buri desu! It’s been so long! We both miss seeing you, though Uncle is too proud to tell you this. He has mentioned you more than once.”

  Even after almost three years in Japan, I was still having trouble decoding the local stylings of sentences like these.

  “Should I contact him, then? It would be a pleasure to visit him again, and it was a very bad day when we … parted ways.”

  She shook her head. “No, that would not work, I’m afraid. He is … very proud. He is just too set in his ways.” She had a plaintive look in her eyes and she looked up directly into mine. “But we have both missed you, very much so.”

  If I had ever wanted to grab her and plant one on her luscious lips, it was at that moment, standing amidst the chaos of a noonday street scene as the rain began changing from drizzle into a more sustained shower. We were under the awning of a furniture store, and I did manage to find the resolve to take her hand. “Mika, can we see each other? I mean—can we meet, maybe have dinner sometime?”

  The next minute was one of the longest and most painful stretches of time in my entire life. I awaited her verdict, heart in my throat. Then, she looked up again. “Well, Jack-san. We both know … well, that what you are suggesting is not exactly … so proper. However—” She looked around, as if she expected someone to be watching her. “I do know a very fine fish restaurant, down by the seashore. The owner is an old friend of my family, and if we were to go there, well … I think it would be acceptable. If you will allow me, I would even like to treat you to lunch. Do you like fish?”

  I was in heaven. I had asked the unaskable question, it seemed, and somehow had received the unthinkable response. “I live for fish!” I blurted out. If she had invited me to a restaurant where they served steamed hardware, or bowls of doorknobs, I would have been just as delighted. So we arranged a date and time the following week.

  And so on the designated day, we met at Sannomiya Station and walked up to where I had stashed my car nearby. From there we rode down the hill and turned east, passing through a rather seedy part of town. This actually surprised me a bit, because I would have guessed that her restaurant choice would be splendid and rich in every way. But the restaurant’s location “down by the seashore” referred to the unpleasant, formerly industrialized areas close to the port, and the restaurant itself was a very small space hidden beneath a railroad trestle.

  From the outside, it looked sleepy and dirty, but when she led me in, she said a very long hello to the owner, who let out a boisterous “Irashai-mase!” Welcoming customers is high art in Japan. We found ourselves seated at a long bar overlooking the cooking units. The chef’s specialties included both sashimi and various kinds of grilled fish.

  I was a Midwest boy, of course, so until my stay in Japan, my idea of a “fish restaurant” was catfish, trout, or the local Long John Silver’s. I had, of course, learned to eat a variety of fish in Japan and I did like standard forms of sushi, but this place was for connoisseurs and it featured all kinds of mysteries. And, despite my years in Japan I had never quite become an aficionado of exotic sashimi—raw fish, without the rice. I squirmed slightly as I watched the waitress bring out a long, blackened fish to one of the tiny tables, where two large women immediately attacked it with their chopsticks.

  “So, Jack-san? What kinds of dishes do you prefer? Do you like fugu?” She meant blowfish, which, if not prepared correctly, contains lethal toxins that can kill the unsuspecting customer. Fugu is, at least according to some, one of the gold standards for true connoisseurs.

  What should I say? I did not want to appear a novice, so I said, “Maybe, if you want some.”

  Surprisingly, she shook her head derisively. “Yada!” (Japanese for Yuk!) “It is not one of my favorites. Please tell me, what dishes do you like, Jack?”

  In a glass case before us were fresh slabs of all kinds of fish, nestled in crushed ice, beside various other side dishes. Along the far wall was a massive aquarium, filled with lively fish that nonchalantly went about their fishy lives, awaiting their sudden execution in the interests of culinary teleology. Customers could simply point a finger at one of their fattened number and within minutes it would be served on a platter, still twitching if you were lucky. The walls were jammed with pictures of sumo wrestlers—the proprietor was a huge fan, Mika said, and the place was a favorite when the wrestlers were in town for the Osaka tournament each spring.

  “Mika, it would please me very much if you chose some of your favorite dishes, to sample.” And so she began quizzing the chef on what was fresh, what was best that day, and so on. The method of the place was to pour endless small glasses of cold beer or sake, and then to sample dish after dish after dish of tiny but beautifully rendered variations of fish, fish, fish. Mika basically gave free rein to the chef, whom she called Takata-san. She addressed him also with the term taisho, a designation of the excellence of his craft. He was a large, balding, prodigiously-bellied man who easily and quickly produced some of the most delectable food I had ever encountered.

  One by one, she ordered up a variety of Japanese delicacies for me to sample. And she refused to tell me what they were until after I had sampled them. This put me in an unfamiliar and awkward position, but I am proud to say that I passed with flying colors. We began with some of the famous local octopus from Akashi: chewy, but delicious and cold, dipped in the soy sauce, spiced up with wasabi. Each small sample was followed with something new to me—succulent, sliced sea cucumbers (namako) in soy sauce, vinegar, and grated white radish; fish foi gras, another delectable treat with a cheesecake-like texture (ankimo); and jellyfish with cucumber salad (kurage). So far, so good. But one final dish that made me sweat and immediately go for the beer was the crab brains (kanimiso). It looked to my untrained eyes like a dab of dark greyish toothpaste. Mika smiled, and told me it was one of her favorites, and so she had saved it for last. But for me, it was the hardest to swallow, and it made me slightly light-headed once I discovered what it really was. But for the pleasure of dining with Mika, I gritted my teeth and took the medicine.

  As we ate and sipped our beer, we talked about movies, books, museums in Tokyo, visits to China and Korea, my own travels in Japan, and so on. The topics came and went quickly, like the selections of ol
d Japanese enka music that wafted through the tiny restaurant. I asked about one lovely song. Mika tilted her head, listening intently for a moment. “Ah yes! Hibari Misora. One of the legends.” She explained that enka was a sort of Japanese rhythm and blues, featuring wistful country-style lyrics, heavily nostalgic and heavily stylized.

  As the music played, the television was left on, soundless as an NHK announcer read the news. Customers came and went, some lounging around for another beer or sake, while others stood waiting for a table of which there were only six in total, lined along the wall directly behind us. It was a popular place.

  Suddenly, about an hour into our lunch, Mika noticed the time. “Ah, sensei. I must be going. I almost forgot I have an appointment!” She immediately gathered her things, and nodded toward Takata that we were done. There would be no bill, since exchanging money would seem crass for a regular like her, and it would be settled later. So I have no idea about the total cost, but I can safely say that this little joint under the railroad tracks ended up being the place where I enjoyed the most expensive meal I ever had in three years in Japan. And it was good—but, even better, far, far better, was my time with Mika alone. Or so I thought.

  The taxi she had requested arrived quickly, and she jumped in. She rolled down the window to say farewell. I blundered out, “Mika, can we do this again? I owe you a meal. I need to pay you back.”

  She waited a moment. Traffic bustled by. “Perhaps, Jack-san. But I am going to Tokyo next week to see my father. And I don’t know when I can return—maybe not for another two or three weeks, at least.”

  Disappointing news, which I think she easily sensed. The taxi began inching away. “But maybe when I return? You obviously know that I come to the market almost every Saturday morning, yes?” Smiling, she threw these promising questions out the window at me. I tried desperately to think of the right word for parting. But before I could answer, she was gone.

  A couple days later, I was snoozing on my sofa, television on but muted, and some Japanese enka droning on from my stereo—Hibari Misaro, in fact. Suddenly, a fist began pounding gently on my front door. I say “pounding gently” quite specifically, since Japanese people rarely seem to be over-emotional in anything, including attempts to appear forceful. The knocking startled me, one of those sudden awakenings when you feel you are either drowning or being threatened by some unseen force, when you don’t even recognize you had dozed off in the first place. Silence, then more pounding, slightly less gently, then a muffled, “Jack-san.”

  Miyamoto? I checked my watch. It was late, nearly eleven o’clock. What was he doing pounding on my door at this hour?

  “Hold on, I’m coming,” I called. I slipped on my robe and stumbled over to the door, kept the chain secured, and cracked it open. I rubbed my eyes. “Yes? It is late and I was asleep. What do you want, sensei?”

  “Jack-san, can I speak to you a moment?” That was when I noticed the other man—very large and not very intelligent-looking—looming about five feet behind Miyamoto. He stood as if he were at military attention, with his hands clasped behind his back. He did not look at me. He looked like an enforcer of some sort, like someone out of a B movie. His flashy clothing, deeply wrinkled face, generally greasy appearance, and what looked like a nasty scar from a knife fight on his right ear indicated that he had some sort of mob connection, what the Japanese call yakuza. He fit all the stereotypes of a Japanese wise guy. Or, perhaps my memory is again playing tricks on me. In any case, I was suddenly scared and certainly on the defensive as I unlatched the door.

  “Yes, sensei? What can I do for you, at this very late hour?” I wanted to be sure he caught my irritation, even with Guido the Goon lurking behind him. So I yawned and stretched my arms, just to make sure he got it.

  Miyamoto had a devilish attitude about him and took his time. He peered behind me into the condo, as if he were looking for someone else. Spying on me, I thought, looking to see if I had a girl up there. “Jack-san, we are here on behalf of the Goto family. I need to … explain some things to you. May we come in?” I noticed his use of the “we” plural and wondered if Guido understood English. He had not moved or seemingly even taken a breath since I opened the door.

  “It is very late, sensei. Please just tell me what it is you want.” I remained firmly in the doorway, blocking their entrance. A rather ballsy move, in retrospect.

  My brazen attitude seemed to catch him off guard. Then he said, “This will not take long. I just thought that you might like some … privacy, in case your neighbors were listening.”

  “My neighbors are all asleep. Like I was. What is it?”

  He looked down the hallway both directions. “Very well. I’m here to … advise you concerning your relations with Mika-san. It is in your best interests to leave her alone and to never see her again.”

  So it was about Mika.

  “Relations? What are you saying?”

  He cleared his throat, smiling, ready to go for broke. “Sensei … we know that you met with her last Saturday and that you dined with her at Takata’s place. You insult me to suggest I am not fully aware of these actions.”

  “These actions? You make it sound sinister. It was just lunch.”

  “Nevertheless.” He relished this word, maybe it was the word of the day on some English vocabulary schedule he had. “Nevertheless, such a rendezvous cannot be repeated. You are to stay away from her. Is that understood?”

  “What are you telling me? Are you threatening me? What if I do see her again? Anyway—we do plan to meet again.” I lied. “I promised her.” Sort of true.

  Miyamoto briefly rubbed his ear, then down the side of his face. Guido stood eerily by, statue-like. Finally, he spoke. “I think you would be much better off canceling those plans. I am here to say that it is in your best interests not to approach Mika-san again in … such a manner. She is … even now, being prepared for other plans.”

  Other plans? “Who sent you here?”

  “As I said, I have come on behalf of the Goto family.”

  “Professor Goto?”

  “That is not important.” He paused, scratched himself. “But maybe you should understand—more fully. Most directly, I have come here on behalf of Mika-san’s father, Mr. Goto.”

  So now Miyamoto was tied up with the other Goto. Or was he? What did he imply with that phrase, “most directly”? My head was still fuzzy from being awakened so suddenly, and something alien was swishing loudly through my bowels, alerting me to the necessity of relieving myself in the very near future. I had no more questions and no curt reply. So I simply said, “Is there anything else?” Suddenly Guido shifted his weight, and crossed his burly arms over his chest. He now looked like one of those demon warriors guarding the gates of a mountain temple. All he needed was a fiery sword.

  “Yes, Jack-san. I need to know that you … understand this arrangement.”

  Arrangement? Another vague Japanese styling. “If you mean, will I keep away from Mika, you can tell your boss that he has no power to tell me how to live my life.”

  This seemed to amuse Miyamoto, and a sudden gleam came to his eyes. He even chuckled, then waited a moment before saying, “Yes, of course, I will be happy to convey your message. Nevertheless”—again, he used his fancy new word—“I must warn you that Mr. Goto does not like hearing … disappointing news. Are you certain that this is what I should tell him?”

  Oddly, Miyamoto’s line about conveying “disappointing news” to his stern boss reminded me of some dialogue from The Godfather, and I suddenly beheld in my mind the image of a bloody horse head turning up in my bed. Maybe he had recently seen the film, and wanted to act like the cagy Robert Duvall character. Maybe he was imagining himself as some kind of consigliere to the great Goto dynasty. Delusions of grandeur, I thought.

  I was tired of Miyamoto’s insinuations, but nevertheless, the thought of Guido banging my head on pavement, or throwing me down a flight of stairs, was not very pleasant either. “Tell him …
that I only had a lunch with Mika, and that we are only friends.” Then I really hit bottom. “And that I will leave her alone and have no … romantic plans for her. Is that better?”

  He smiled his sinister smile. “Yes, sensei. Much better that I take that message to Mr. Goto. I know you would not wish to … have another late night visit from my colleague, Endo-san.” He gestured behind him to his silent partner, who noticed his name and Miyamoto’s gesture, and bowed slightly in my general direction. “Thank you for your time, Jack-san. I will let you return to your rest.”

  And without a word, I slammed the door, though gently, in the slightly rebellious manner the Japanese style allows.

  By now, winter was nearly unchallenged. Cold winds were a daily routine, snow or freezing rain were regular visitors. Oily puddles turned the streets into obstacle courses. As my final Thanksgiving and Christmas in Japan approached, I was becoming haggard and ready to pack it in. The only thought keeping me engaged was the slim idea of rejuvenating my friendship with Mika. The fish restaurant had now become, at least in my feverish imagination, the mythologized highlight of my three years in Kobe. But Miyamoto’s tacky threats, along with his intimidating, tattooed sidekick Endo, got its claw as firmly lodged inside my brain as Mika’s luminous face—so much so, that I found it hard to reconcile the two competing urges: 1) go after Mika, or 2) save my own neck from being crushed by some yakuza thug.

  Nevertheless (as Miyamoto might say), I could not let my nemesis’s threats—or, for that matter, the Moloch of Japanese manners and ideology—determine my fate, Endo’s surly demeanor notwithstanding. It took me almost a month to gather the nerve, but I succeeded. She had mentioned that she might return from Tokyo within a month. So I returned to the Saturday morning farmer’s market. The first week, four hours of lurking proved futile, as did my efforts the next several weeks. Finally, just a few days before Christmas, the sun appeared, the temperature turned balmy, and right on cue, as if the fortuitous weather were an omen, Mika appeared in full radiance. This time, she was walking along with an elderly, conservatively-dressed Japanese woman. Both were laughing together about something. The older woman giggled in the typical understated style of refined Japanese women, with hand over mouth. Mika, whose hands were once again occupied with two filled shopping bags, was laughing out loud, her mouth open, in a boisterous and unapologetic fullness. Her clothing, like her laugh, was again that of a typical Midwestern American girl—bandana, denims, sweatshirt, and boots. It was an image that surprised and delighted me, and I have never managed to shake it in all the years since. Right in mid-laugh, as it were, she looked up and spotted me observing her. This caused her to stop, then smile my way, then immediately glance sideways toward the older woman, who continued chortling away, hand over mouth.