The Mad Kyoto Shoe Swapper and Other Short Stories

by Rebecca Otowa

  Plunking the hat on her head with a sigh of relief, Amanda saw a figure she knew a few paces away. It was Yoko, cool in linen and proceeding decorously beneath a lavender-colored parasol. They met at the pedestrian crossing.

  “Yes, I’m quite busy taking care of my father-in-law,” said Yoko in response to Amanda’s query. “I do manage to get out for a few minutes a day to shop. It’s a nice change, even though it’s so hot.”

  Amanda was considering what to say next when the ground seemed to drop from under her. Clutching Yoko’s shoulder, she saw the other woman’s eyes widen as the crowd exploded with startled shouts of “Earthquake!” The traffic lights swung wildly on their wires and then abruptly blinked out. Gradually the tremor abated, and exclamations of relief were mingled with annoyed remarks about the power outage. Harassed housewives burst from darkened shops, forcing open the inoperative automatic doors. The crowd got larger, each person recounting his own experience at the top of his lungs and nobody listening.

  “This way,” said Yoko, and taking her friend’s arm, steered her through the crush toward the welcome shade of a small park nearby. Under the trees, a jolly man was selling bottles of old-fashioned ramune, which he fished with red dripping hands out of ice water in a bathtub-sized cooler. Soon Amanda found herself sitting on a bench beside Yoko in the shifting dapples of shade. The fizzy lemonade tickled her tongue and drove ice-cold spikes of delicious pain into her forehead.

  Yoko drained her bottle and inspected the glass marble rolling around in the bottom. Then she looked at her watch. “My goodness! Have we been here that long? I must get back.” She gave the bottle to the vendor, bowed to Amanda, and clicked off down the tree-lined path, gold coins of sunlight sliding off her shoulders.

  Amanda remained on the bench and watched her disappear in the crowd. The park was cool, and the way home was long. She suddenly recalled that Yoko had, without comment, looked at her watch at least three times during the few minutes they sat there; but she felt too lightheaded to think about it further.

  The black cars returned to the quiet suburban street. Mr. Ishida again scowled down from his great height at the offered condolences on the death of his father. As before, a period of silence and calm ensued, with no sign of Yoko. Amanda watched the house covertly. She almost hoped that this time there would be no bland resumption of coffee and cakes in the mornings, because she had other things to think about. She was pregnant. It must have happened on that spring night of unwanted passion and whiskey fumes. This new reality occupied the center of her life, and seemed also to have galvanized her mother-in-law, who had taken to dropping by much more often than before. Masatoshi encouraged the visits, digging with gusto into the prepared foods she brought, and repeatedly remarking that “you two must have a lot to talk about now.” Amanda doubted it. These people were going to squeeze her between them till there was nothing left.

  One blustery autumn morning, when a high wind was blowing the leaves off the trees before they could change color, Amanda was out on the second-floor deck, her hair whipped around her head, trying to bring in the laundry before it started raining. Faintly over the roar of the wind, she heard the doorbell. The door to the balcony was at a strange angle to the stairs, and required a twist of the hips to get through. She carefully maneuvered herself through the narrow doorway and down the stairs. Yoko stood at the front door, bubbly as usual, holding her box of cakes up against her chest, covered by an expensive hand-knitted sweater Amanda had never seen before. Obviously she had something to tell. Sure enough, as soon as the coffee cups touched the table, she launched in.

  “I wanted to tell you—I’m going away for a while.”

  “Really?” This was news indeed, given the pattern of Yoko’s life up to now.

  “Yes. You see, we came into a little money when my father-in-law died, and my husband said I could use some of it to spend three months in London on a refresher course. You know I’ve always been interested in the confectionery business”—she paused dramatically—“and I’m going to have my own shop at last! When I get back from London, it’s going to happen! I have the shop all picked out—it’s across town, but now that I don’t have anyone to take care of at home, I can stay out as long as I like. I can even spend the night there.”

  Amanda stared at her neighbor’s glowing face. She had heard about this dream before, but had always assumed it was a fantasy to carry Yoko through her days of thankless work. Apparently not—it was real. She felt a stab of envy, and decided on the spur of the moment to tell Yoko her own news.

  “Actually, I have something to tell you too. I’m going to have a baby.”

  “Oh!” Yoko gave a cry of delight. “How wonderful! I hope you’ll be very happy! What fun to have a baby to play with right next door!” Her tone was shrill, and she didn’t quite look at Amanda, but fiddled with her coffee spoon. Amanda felt a trifle queasy.

  “Well! Me with cakes, and you with a baby—we’ll have a busy year!” Yoko crowed. Then she lowered her voice. “By the way, once again, thanks for your condolences. You and your husband are very kind.”

  Amanda blinked. “That’s all right … I guess your father-inlaw passed away pretty suddenly?”

  Yoko looked up. Her eyes were wide and innocent. “Oh yes, I guess I never got to tell you what happened. Remember the day we met in town, when we had that earthquake? Well, the power outage that followed … I’m afraid it interfered with Grandpa’s medical monitors. When I got home he was unconscious, and he died soon after. Well, Amanda-san, I must be going—my plane leaves this afternoon. Please take care of yourself.” And with her birdlike smile, she was off.

  Amanda gazed after her, open-mouthed, from her front step till Yoko had disappeared behind her own front door.

  4

  “I’m home.” There was the clunk of a briefcase falling to the floor, and then Masatoshi appeared in the kitchen doorway, loosening his tie. He made straight for the refrigerator and began investigating square containers. “Yum! Rice with matsutake! My mother makes the best.” He yanked open the door of the microwave and shoved the container in, pushing buttons. The newspapery aroma of matsutake mushrooms began to fill the kitchen. While he waited, Masatoshi eyed Amanda, who was sitting at the kitchen table, staring straight in front of her. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Amanda’s eyes found her husband’s. “She looked at her watch before,” she muttered. “She looked at her watch three times.”

  Bing! said the microwave, as if in agreement. Masatoshi grabbed the container out with a muffled curse at the heat, got some chopsticks, and began shoveling in the brownish rice. “What are you talking about?” he said around his mouthful.

  Amanda closed her eyes and felt ill. Behind her eyelids she saw a slim, brown Japanese boy laughing as he ran down a beach in Hawaii. Her husband. Where was that boy now? She said slowly, “There’s something strange going on next door. Remember those two funerals?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That lady, Mrs. Ishida, was responsible for those deaths. She practically confessed it to me in so many words.”

  Masatoshi’s reply was sharp. “Whatever gave you that idea? You’d better be careful what you say.”

  Amanda’s eyes flew open. “But you don’t understand! She told me. Right in our living room. She said she refused to give the old lady her medicine, and then the old man, she deliberately delayed her return from the market while his monitors failed and he died. I was there. She was watching the time.”

  Masatoshi never paused in his meal. As soon as the rice was finished, he got up and started rooting around in the fridge again. He took out something with an eye-watering vinegar smell and dug in, watching her narrowly over his chopsticks. “Did you say anything about this to my mother?”

  “No …”

  “Well, don’t. You’re a foreigner. You have to understand, it’s not our business. We don’t interfere. It’s the Japanese way.” He finished the vinegary stuff and tossed the containers into the sink. �
��Anyhow, you probably just imagined the whole thing. Pregnant women have vivid imaginations, I’ve heard that.” He grabbed a can of beer and went out. In a moment Amanda heard the splashy music and laughter of a TV game show. She stood up shakily, got a bowl, and served herself from the pot of soup she had made. Only five months pregnant and already she felt like an old woman.

  As autumn deepened, and her pregnancy continued on its rather difficult course, Amanda felt as if she had been shoved into a box and the lid nailed down. Her husband had entirely ceased to listen to anything she said, and her mother-in-law nagged her constantly about her health. Were they in league against her, or was it just paranoia, as Masatoshi had said? She felt her ideas about Yoko changing as well. Her earlier sharp suspicions seemed to have faded, leaving only a tired envy of Yoko doing her refresher course in London. She missed their talks over coffee and cake. Her English classes had been dwindling as her strength did, and now she didn’t have anyone to talk to at all.

  One bright brisk morning she struggled up the stairs with a basket of wet laundry. As soon as she made it to the landing, she heard the front door open and the hallooing of her mother-inlaw. “I’ll be right there!” she called crossly. She took a moment to balance her sizable stomach in order to get through the tricky door, and that was when she looked toward the house next door and saw a full load of laundry flapping on the balcony. Yoko must have returned from her trip. Amanda was tempted to go over and knock on the door. Yoko would have lots of news, and might even invite her into the house that was now hers alone. She felt a surge of unaccustomed energy.

  Amanda finished hanging up the clothes and descended the narrow staircase one slow step at a time. Her mother-in-law spied her from the kitchen, where she was unpacking yet another bag of food, and yelled out “Careful!” I’m being careful, Amanda thought, scowling. She stopped to catch her breath and with an enormous effort, tacked a species of smile on her face before she entered the kitchen and greeted the relentlessly cheerful old lady.

  “Good morning, Mother. What have you brought us today?”

  “Seasonal delicacies—chestnut rice and boiled vegetables with tofu.” The mother set the containers down and regarded Amanda critically. “You look very thin and tired. You need to take better care of yourself. That’s my grandchild you’re carrying! Aren’t you eating my good food?”

  “Yes, I am,” Amanda lied. (The truth was, she couldn’t get her mother-in-law’s food down at all.) “Masatoshi always shares it with me.”

  The mother’s brow wrinkled. “When you talk about my son to me, you must say Masatoshi-san,” she said in a pinched, disapproving tone.

  “Sorry. I’m just a bit out of sorts this morning. I should probably take a walk later.” This would be a good excuse to visit Yoko. Dully, she realized she had become rather good at lying.

  “Good idea—exercise is important,” was the bossy reply. “Well, Amanda-san, I’ll be going. I have a lot to do today. See you tomorrow. I’m certainly looking forward to this.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I guess Masa-kun didn’t tell you. What a bad boy! He invited me to stay with you two until the baby is born. I’m moving in tomorrow. I know you’ll appreciate the help—you can’t take care of your husband properly in your condition.” Suddenly Amanda’s expression of total shock seemed to penetrate the mother’s self-absorption. “Don’t worry, it’s the Japanese way. Your mother can’t help you, obviously, all the way across the ocean.” With a bray of laughter, the mother took her leave.

  As soon as she was out of sight, Amanda left her house and waddled rapidly up the path to the Ishidas’ front door. She imagined how good it would be to see a friendly face as she waited for a response to her knock.

  The door swung open and Amanda took a breath to say hello to Yoko, but instead a tiny elderly lady stood there, her eyes wide at the sight of a foreigner on the doorstep. For a moment they gazed at each other, their faces mirroring exactly the same thought: Who could this be? “Ah, gomen kudasai,” stammered Amanda. “I’m from next door …”

  The old eyes regarded her in utter perplexity.

  “Next door,” Amanda repeated helplessly. “Is Yoko-san at home?”

  There was a flurry in the room beyond, and Yoko suddenly appeared, grasping the door with her hand. “Amanda-san!” she stammered. “What a pleasant surprise. Just one moment.” She took the old lady by the shoulders and guided her gently but firmly back into the house, nudging the door shut with her foot. In a few seconds it clicked open again and Yoko stood there, her old smile once more in place.

  “My friend, it is good to see you. How have you been? I see the baby is growing!”

  “How are you, Yoko? When did you get back?”

  Yoko looked a little embarrassed. “About two weeks ago. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to come over and chat with you.”

  “I have missed our chats,” Amanda admitted. “So, how’s the cake shop? Is it up and running yet?”

  “The cake shop?” Yoko seemed suddenly vague, turning the words over slowly. “Oh, I’m afraid I don’t have time for that.”

  Amanda felt deflated. She realized that the thought of Yoko fulfilling her dream had been a vital support for her over the past months. “What happened? And who is that lady?”

  Yoko glanced quickly over her shoulder, as if she thought the old woman might be sneaking up on her. “Oh, that’s my mother.”

  “Your mother is visiting you? How nice.” With a sudden stab of longing, Amanda had a vision of her own mother, brisk and gray-haired, sitting down to cards with her friends, driving to quilting lessons in her little car.

  “Yes, she’s moved in with me, as she can no longer take care of herself—she’s very confused, you know.” Yoko gazed at Amanda, lowered her voice, and murmured, “But I don’t think she’ll be here long.”

  Amanda never knew how she got back to her own house. Her senses seemed dreamy and crystal clear at the same time. She packed a small bag, made a couple of phone calls, and booked a plane ticket online. Just before stepping out the door to the waiting taxi, she turned back and hastily scrawled a note which she left on the kitchen table.

  Dear Masatoshi-san,

  Please tell your mother there are clothes drying on the balcony. And tell her to be careful on the stairs.

  —Amanda

  Three Village Tales

  1. The Reluctant Tea Teacher

  BOOM, ba bap bap BOOM, da da da da da BOOM, ba bap bap BOOM …

  A sudden flood of amplified sound, up from the floor, in from the walls. Seated on their demure little bamboo stools in a row, the students tried to hide their winces behind a ripple of chatter. Mrs. Miyazaki, whose turn it was to make tea, stared bemusedly at the array of utensils in front of her. Conversation died, and four pairs of middle-aged-lady eyes swiveled to Sensei.

  BOOM, ba bap bap BOOM … Sensei felt the pressure of attention, looked up, and seamlessly, gently, mentioned the next step in the ritual. Mrs. Miyazaki jerked into motion with an embarrassed half-smile; the watching students relaxed; the boom-ba-boom went on, oblivious.

  Sensei didn’t try to talk herself out of it any more—she was stupefied with boredom from years of sitting in this room in the garishly renovated village hall, under glaring fluorescents, teaching tea to complacent country ladies. They made tea as though washing the dinner dishes, clinking and clunking their way through the ritual, fiercely focused on getting the order right, unable to lift their minds enough to inject any beauty into their spacing or timing. Meanwhile, the watching students chatted about their ailing mothers-in-law, pickle recipes, an old dog’s incontinence. And right next door—right next door!—in a masterpiece of bad scheduling, the neighborhood karaoke group wailed through the same boom-ba-boom songs time after time, week after week, with a rudeness as careless as it was unconscious, drowning out the delicate hissing of the tea kettle and the subdued clink of utensils.

  Mrs. Miyazaki finished making the tea and placed the tea bowl in exa
ctly the wrong place on the stand beside her, then faced forward again. Sensei glided off her stool with the unobtrusiveness of long practice, picked up the tea bowl, and cupping it affectionately, carried it back to her seat. Murmuring the ritual apology to her neighbor, she brought the warm, rough bowl to her lips. Ah! The hot astringent foamy liquid flooded her mouth. This was the only moment in the whole lesson that she felt was worthwhile. She even forgot the relentless thumping of the karaoke. Moving gently and with gratitude, she replaced the bowl at the student’s right hand, in exactly the right place. She reseated herself, savoring the smooth rise of the caffeine into her head, the sudden pounding of the heart, the intensity of vision. Thank goodness it was the custom at these lessons to serve tea to the teacher first! She had about half an hour of artificial wakefulness until the sooty dust bunnies of boredom descended again.

  The ritual continued without any further hitches. The only problem with the caffeine was that it intensified the combination of the karaoke and the ladies’ prattle into a finely calibrated torture. Which was worse, Sensei mused, as she automatically murmured the litany of set responses—death by suffocation in boredom, or death by excruciating assaults on the senses? Ruefully she recalled that the Zen monks had originally adopted tea drinking centuries ago as an antidote to sleepiness during meditation. After all these years, the tea ceremony itself had acquired the power to induce degrees of drowsiness undreamed of by those simple monks of yore.

  Nearing the end, the student lifted the elegant long-handled bamboo ladle off the kettle and clunked it into the cold-water container. Sensei’s absolutely invisible wince had taken years to perfect. Her mind wandered through the coming lesson—the peccadilloes of the next student, the amount of water remaining in the kettle, the customary seasonal words to describe the bamboo tea scoop.