Maybe I was already in love.
ONE LATE AFTERNOON, I came back to the apartment on my break. Mom was nowhere to be seen, so I decided to head toward the coffee shop about halfway down the main street of shops on the east side of Shimokitazawa Station, for coffee beans and a latte to go. It was a long-established store called Maldive, where the owner roasted coffee in a machine that sat right there on the shop floor. The incredible fragrance floated down the whole street of shops as he operated the machine with his muscular arms, just as he had done for decades. It always inspired me to enjoy my cup of coffee and make the most of the day.
It was fall, and the cold air was settling in.
I touched the trunk of the cherry tree that stood on the corner where the bistro was, and walked toward the main street of shops. I remembered how in spring, when the tree was in full bloom, the pink of the blossoms set off the brown walls of the bistro, and enveloped the whole corner with a sweeter, pleasurable air. Passersby would raise their heads to see the flowers as they walked past and smile, like moviegoers looking up at a screen showing a happy film.
In spring, it was hard work keeping the sidewalk outside the shop clear of fallen petals, but I loved the tree and didn’t begrudge the work. A long time ago, I happened to visit Shimokitazawa when it was in full bloom, and had been dazzled by the sight. Since then, I’d laid my hand on its trunk each time I passed by, whether it was in leaf, or bare in winter. The habit had become one of the many daily points of contact that anchored me to life in this town.
I passed the corner with the cherry tree, and carried on into the main street.
I was in Maldive, clutching my bag of Mom’s favorite beans, an organic coffee from Ecuador, and waiting for my latte, when Shintani-kun walked in.
“Hello,” he said, seeing me.
“Hello,” I said, thinking it could hardly be called a surprise that we’d run into each other here. I smiled the same smile I used at work when he came into the bistro.
He bought some beans, and I found myself making a mental note: You brew your coffee in a filter machine with a single-hole dripper, and enjoy the acidity of the Kona.
“Um,” he said, turning to me abruptly. “Um, I’m sorry if I’m mistaken. But are you the daughter of Mr. Imoto? From the band Sprout?”
I cried out in surprise, loud enough for the owner of the coffee shop to raise his head from the roaster. “Yes, I am. You know him?” I said.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “My name’s Shintani. I work at a venue where your dad and his band played regularly.”
“Oh, right! That must be the one in Shinjuku?”
“That’s the one.”
“You like music, then,” I said.
“I’m not an expert on the grown-up, British-influenced kind of rock that Sprout played, but I love domestic indie bands. We get a lot of them playing at our venue, too. The first time I ended up at your restaurant, I’d just been to a show at Lady Jane, around the corner. I knew I recognized you from somewhere, and then I remembered seeing you and your mother backstage once, when you were looking for your father,” he said.
“Oh, I see. I know the band had a regular night at your venue for a long time. I’m sorry they had to quit, with my dad dying in such a terrible way . . .”
“About that—there’s something I wanted to tell you,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I was really unsure about this,” he said. “But I’m pretty good at remembering people’s faces, and knowing when I’ve met someone before. That’s also why I recognized you.”
“I wish I had that skill. I’m sure you’d be good at running a shop,” I said, recalling how when I’d started at the bistro, I’d had to resort to sketching cartoons of the regulars so I could remember their names.
“I do,” he said. “The venue was actually founded by my father, and I manage it now.” He smiled. His teeth were slightly, endearingly crooked.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. That’s impressive, for someone your age.”
“It just got handed down to me. No different from being the son of a fishmonger or something.”
WE’D BEEN DRINKING OUR coffee in the niche with the wooden barrel that served as a table, but more customers were coming in and out to buy beans and coffees, and the place was getting crowded. We agreed to move somewhere we could talk more quietly, and said good-bye to the owner and left the shop.
“Where would you like to go?” he said.
“We’ve just had coffee, so what about going to Chaka Theka for a cup of chai?” I said, wondering why this man was so easy to talk to. Was it because he reminded me of Dad? I liked how he didn’t smile too much as he talked, and spoke carefully, without dropping the ends off his words.
“I’ve never been there. I’d love to try it,” he said.
CHAKA THEKA WAS ON the other side of the tracks, down a small side street that we turned into through the throng of people by the shop that sold roasted rice cakes. The casual restaurant was run by the manager-chef, Tanaka-san, who served home-cooked ethnic food from different cuisines. Mom, whose digestion still wasn’t up to anything too heavy, swore by the food here, which sat easily in the stomach. When we ate out on my days off, we often walked over the tracks to this little eatery.
In the late afternoon, after lunch service, they served truly delicious spiced chai, and a signature banana cake. Shortly after Mom had moved in, she’d had a slice of the banana cake and been so taken with it that she’d asked Tanaka-san to bake extra so we could take it home for a housewarming celebration. We’d feasted on cake with whipped cream, and beer, in place of dinner.
Tanaka-san was quiet and could seem intimidating, but behind that exterior lay a passionate and empathetic soul. When Mom had explained how she’d ended up moving to the neighborhood, Tanaka-san had given Mom the whole cake, when she’d only asked for half, and had gifted it to her free of charge.
At the time, I was still so shrunken into myself I couldn’t quite believe what was happening. I’d never dreamed that Mom and I could ever do anything as fun as gorging on an entire cake until our bellies ached. We weren’t being hysterical, or depressed. We’d just thought of something nice to do, and done it together. That kind of thing had felt wrong in Meguro, but the new apartment somehow made it possible.
Tanaka-san wasn’t in just then, so we asked the part-time waitress for a smoking table near the door. Oh, right, this isn’t a date, I thought, feeling a little deflated. I was here to spend my break hearing some heavy news about Dad from when he’d been alive.
“I apologize if this is unwelcome,” Shintani-kun said.
“Oh, no, please,” I said, “I want to know everything about him. Anything.”
“Then I’ll tell you. Did you see the photo of the woman who died with him, in that magazine? The sort of melancholic beauty?”
“Yes. I didn’t want to look very closely, but I think that only made me remember her more clearly,” I said.
“I saw her at our venue, just once,” he said.
“What?” I was surprised, since from what I’d heard, no one in Dad’s circle had known about her.
“She didn’t stand out, or call attention to herself. It was almost like she was barely there, but for some reason she made an impression on me. It bothered me so much, I asked Yamazaki-san, who played drums in your father’s band, about her. And he said he thought he might have seen her, too. I asked the others, too, just casually, but none of the others did, just us.
“I don’t know why, but she was the kind of woman who gave you chills just to look at her. And as you know, Sprout played at the venue every month, but I can say with almost complete certainty that she was never back after that. I don’t know whether or not your father spoke to her that night—I think it would have been about a year before they died. Did anyone else know she’d been there?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so. Not Mom, or the police,” I said.
“I know it doesn’t change th
e fact that she started a relationship with your father at some point after that, and since they both died, it won’t come to criminal charges. But I thought it would give a different picture of things if the family—you and your mother—were to know this. So I wanted to make sure you did. Even though I know it’s hardly my place to be raking it back up,” he said.
“I wonder why Dad never introduced her, or even mentioned her, to Yamazaki-san. They were close,” I said.
“Yamazaki-san told me your father had come to ask for his advice on something. But he didn’t make the connection between that strange woman and the one who died. He’d forgotten all about her until we spoke—that was when he first thought of it. And he said your father had asked him not to tell you and your mother about the woman he was seeing, he was sure of that.
“That’s why he didn’t feel able to tell you about this. He said it would be fine for me to, if I had a chance, since I was the one to notice. Yamazaki-san plays in other bands that play at our venue, too, so I see him often. He seemed to think it might be better to let things lie, since telling you wasn’t going to change anything, so long after it happened. So me telling you now is in some ways a bit of a self-indulgence,” he said.
His story was saturated with the familiar and condensed essence of Dad’s old life.
I gazed out the window at the private road that led to the restaurant. On the main street, a steady stream of young people was passing. The street was decorated with colorful streamers that waved in the wind and gave the street the air of a festival in Nepal or Thailand.
“It doesn’t matter, anyway, now he’s not here anymore,” I said, impetuously. “But I’m glad to learn something I didn’t know. Thank you.”
“Well, like I said, I know it doesn’t mean much. I just thought, if it was me, I’d like to know,” he said, a little apologetically.
“We heard from the police that Dad and that woman were actually distant relatives. His younger sister got married to a man in Ibaraki, and that woman was her husband’s . . . niece? I think. We only saw my aunt every once in a while, and she hadn’t even ever met the woman.
“They told us that when he died, he had quite a lot of alcohol in his system, even though he was intolerant to booze and never drank. I guess he was pretty nervous about something they were going to talk about? I don’t know what. Maybe money. The police let us know that the woman wasn’t pregnant,” I said, looking down at my hands wrapped around the cup of spiced chai.
“I wish now I could have done something that night,” Shintani-kun said. “There was something about that woman that really bothered me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was troubling and stuck in my memory. It was like she had a darkness that could exert some kind of influence over people. That night might have been the first time that she spoke to your father. I kept thinking—If only I’d told you, or Yamazaki-san about it earlier—even though I know there’s no way I could have done. That’s why I kept coming to the restaurant. But I was never able to broach the subject, and I thought it was none of my business, since it wasn’t going to change anything that had already happened.
“And the food was good, and you looked happy working there, and lately I’d been telling myself I could let it be. So if I hadn’t run into you earlier, I might not ever have brought it up.
“You look so happy, when you’re at work. I always enjoy seeing it. You just go about things in such a satisfying way—always going straight for the jobs most people would avoid. Actually, I even wondered whether you’d like to come work for us. Not that I’ve come here to headhunt you,” he said, and smiled.
I blushed. He noticed me, I thought. But I could hardly confess that I liked the way he ate, too.
In spite of his delicate appearance, I could tell from his words and the way he spoke them that he was purposeful person. I liked him even more knowing that he wasn’t just a spoiled young privileged gourmet.
My heart was fluttering in my chest. At the same time, another me inside the me who’d been acting strong for Mom—a childlike me—felt confused and sad, and started acting up. All I wanted was to see Dad just one more time, and ask him what had happened. But that was impossible, and I could never know. The regret and the defeat and the lingering sense of injustice all came rushing back.
Out of nowhere, a tear rolled down my cheek and fell onto my slice of banana cake. I hurriedly wiped my eyes with my sleeve.
He took my hand firmly. “I’m really sorry. I keep telling you things I have no business saying,” he said.
I felt like I could the sound of his heart beating.
“I don’t know anything about you—just what you’re like when you’re working. I don’t know if you have a boyfriend, whether you live with someone, anything. But I feel like I’m losing track of why we’re here, because I’m desperate to find out, to know more about you. I want you to know I wasn’t using your father as an excuse for us to talk. But at some point I started to look forward a lot to eating at the restaurant, and I knew I had it backward, but it became harder and harder to tell you, and I started feeling like I had an ulterior motive,” he said.
I do live with someone, I thought, as he said it, but it’s my Mom. I was baffled as to how the conversation had taken this sudden turn.
“No, it’s fine,” I said, my voice nasal from crying. I was looking down at my feet, and his big sneakers next to them, too embarrassed to look him in the eye. “That’s all fine. Thank you for telling me.”
“I’m glad you don’t mind,” he said. As he did, I saw that his face had gone bright red, and I thought I would like to get to know him better. Next time, when I wasn’t on my afternoon break, and didn’t desperately need to blow my nose.
WHEN I CASUALLY MENTIONED it to Michiyo-san, she smirked knowingly, and treated me to a freshly squeezed orange juice.
“I had a feeling he was interested in you,” she said.
When I got home after my shift, Mom was still out. I lay down on the floor, looked up at the wood grain on the ceiling, and thought.
I decided to talk to Yamazaki-san when I got the chance, without telling Mom. I felt like everything was moving quickly, that things were changing all at once, and that there was lots to be done.
I dozed off.
I dreamed that someone was calling out to me.
In the dream, I was at the condo in Meguro. Indirect lighting illuminated the hallway. Wait, I thought. Am I alone? Do I live here? I noticed myself wondering, and thought it was strange. Deep down, I had a nagging feeling I’d left Mom behind somewhere.
Dad? I asked, and searched for him through the condo. He wasn’t there. Nor was the photo of him we’d put up after the funeral.
The sounds I was making echoed through the silent apartment, loud and clear, like footsteps echoing down a long hallway.
Where’s the photo? We put it here, and not on the family altar, so we could have him close by. Is he still alive, in this dream? I wondered. If I wait here, will he come back? I walked into the living room. Mom had always had a vase of cut flowers on the dining table, which was attached to the kitchen worktop, but in the dream there were no flowers. Mom’s not here anymore, I thought.
On the table there was a newspaper.
It was open to an article. It was bigger than it had been in real life—I guessed that was because it was a dream. It was the size of a full-page ad.
There was a photo of Dad, and of that woman.
The article beneath it ran, Mitsuharu Imoto, keyboard player of Sprout, a cult rock band which appealed to young and mature audiences alike, committed suicide with a woman . . . The band had appeared at such and such events with so-and-so . . . Above it, there was a large photo of that woman. She had small, slight features, a slender face. A woman with wavy hair in a side parting, who looked nothing like Mom, who was like a mirage.
When I saw her face, I was struck by an inexpressible terror. This woman has tried to die with other men as well, I thought. Her eyes say so. Is she satisfied
now, having killed Dad? I have to make sure, I thought. In my panic I felt confused. Some kind of force was trying to pull me down into a dark place, and I felt it filling the room.
This woman hasn’t got any of the things I think are important. That makes her invulnerable. She could defeat me instantly.
The things I believed in were puny and insignificant in the face of a power like this—that was why Dad had died. And the world was full of dark forces like that. In the terrifyingly vast entirely of existence, which contained everything conceivable, there seemed to be no use in me trying to speak up and say anything at all. Even if deep down I was connected to the whole of it, any thought that I could contain in my head was bound to be ineffectual and pointless.
Where’s the phone? I need to call someone, tell Mom. I panicked and floundered in my dream. I moved the newspaper aside, and there was Dad’s cell phone. He was looking for this, I thought, and reached for it.
“YOU’LL CATCH COLD DOZING off like that,” I heard Mom say. She was putting a blanket over me.
“What? Where am I? This isn’t Meguro?” I said, confused. “Where’s the phone? Dad’s cell? I found it, but where did it go? He asked me to.”
“You’re still half asleep. It’s one o’clock! Go to bed, if you’re going to sleep,” Mom said. Her cheeks were pink, and she looked like she’d had a few drinks. The bags under her eyes made her look endearingly middle-aged. A strange, tender feeling came over me, and I wanted to hold onto her and lick her like a kitten. This was how Mom was going to grow old, I thought. And Dad was missing it.
“Who have you been out drinking with?” I asked.
“I was just talking to Chizuru, at her bar. The cool underground place with the huge lizard on the ceiling? Chizuru’s older than me, but she’s got a sexy voice, and she’s so laid back, and responsible, and generous, and wow, I’m kind of envious. I want to be more like her when I get older,” Mom said.
“There wasn’t any juicy gossip, or anything. I don’t think I even remember how to fall in love anymore. Every time I get remotely excited about anything, I feel like I’m going to be punished. I live frugally, but when I’m out drinking, I start fretting about running out of money.”
Moshi Moshi Page 6
