“Um, the pickled plum crackers, please,” I said. It was just like playing make-believe with her as a child, I thought, and I felt embarrassed. But Mom was unperturbed, and went behind the bar and started calmly preparing the tea.
Then Eri-chan came back into the shop, and said, “Oh, Yocchan! Your mom’s agreed to start helping me out,” giving me her usual serene smile, which made me stop worrying about the complicated feelings I was having.
Eri-chan got back to work, moving briskly, and around me—regardless of my turmoil—the shop was filled with an air of peaceful calm. The atmosphere had been cultivated through the decades of the tea house’s existence, a living thing that was continually being replenished. The teas stood orderly on the shelves, and the customers each spent their time in the space as they pleased. The sound of water boiling and the quiet music playing in the background melded until I heard them as a single sound.
I guess I have less to worry about if Mom’s got a job, I thought. It beats her being bored at home painting her nails, or walking aimlessly around the neighborhood, or sitting alone reading. But standing inside the counter talking in a low voice with Eri-chan, Mom looked like the old Mom, from when she’d been herself, and my heart ached just a little in jealousy.
I’m the one who didn’t want Mom to get better, I realized. I was shocked at my own immaturity. I was the one who wanted her to stay at home in my apartment, who wanted to keep my mother to myself. Now, standing in this shop, she was back in the wider world, among everyone else.
I sipped the tea Mom brought me, feeling chastened. It was sweet and good.
Of course . . . I realized, again. Time’s passing.
I needed to get back on my feet again, too. I couldn’t keep escaping into Dad’s death. I wanted to stop feeling sorry for myself and how such a terrible thing had happened while I was still trying to get on my own feet. It had happened, and there was nothing to be done about that. There were plenty of people in the world who’d been through far worse. It had come as a huge shock to me, because it had been so far out of the normal flow of things until then, but it wasn’t out of the realm of things that were possible in this world.
It consoled me to see Mom being moving around and smiling to people for the first time in a long time. I felt like something was coming back. Something like the shine of a time when the three of us were working hard to build our family. Something along with the plaintive cleanness to be found in the pain of loss.
For a moment, I thought it might be okay to forget about Dad like this, gradually, like I was leaving him behind. That going back over things and trying to figure out what happened, or trying to get closure, visiting graves and offering prayers, could all wait, maybe for decades. The sight of Mom getting on with her work was settling me into the present, into reality. The rest of the tea house—from the small flowers in a vase on the table, the steam rising from the kettle, the silver pot holding hot water for refills—all helped me see that I was here now, and there was no need to panic or be impatient.
But it wasn’t to be. The other me inside me—the dark, damp, perseverating one—was still calling more things into my life.
THE WOMAN TURNED UP at Les Liens just before the end of lunch service one day.
She came through the door behind a swarthy man with dark features, who said, “We just want a cup of tea.” She stood and stared at me from behind him.
“We close at three, is that all right?” I said.
“Yes, please,” said the man. I couldn’t place it, but he had a trace of a regional accent.
The woman, who I assumed was his wife, had pretty, round eyes, and a slightly melancholy expression. She had quite a strong build, and she gave the impression of a hard worker used to being on her feet. She had a guidebook to Tokyo, so I thought they were tourists.
The two of them ordered coffee, chatted quietly for a while, and then asked for a slice of apple pie to share.
After serving them the pie, I went to sweep the sidewalk outside, and then got back into the kitchen to prep for dinner, and wasn’t keeping a very close eye on the couple. I heard a chair scrape and went back to the dining room, expecting them to want to pay. The woman counted out exact change and handed it to me. I thanked her, and I thought that would be the end of it.
Then she said, “My name is Nakanishi. I’ve come from Ibaraki.”
Ugh, not Ibaraki, I thought.
“We’re in Tokyo to attend a memorial for a relative, but there’s something I wanted to talk to you about . . . about your father,” she said. “Could you give me five minutes? My husband’s waiting outside, as you can see, so I won’t take any more of your time. I came here hoping to speak to you.”
“I understand,” I said, and nodded, feeling nervous, and went to get permission from Michiyo-san, who took one look at my expression and immediately said yes.
The woman started talking, still standing by the cash register.
“The man waiting outside is my second husband. My previous husband was nearly killed . . . by that woman,” she said.
My vision went dark. In an instant, I saw what it meant to meet someone—it meant connecting with them, for good or for bad.
“In my case, their suicide pact failed, so it only destroyed our marriage. But that woman had been looking for a man to drag down with her for a long time. She was known for it locally. She worked at a hostess bar, and tried to get her clients to die with her. It wasn’t just her looks—there was something about her that well-bred men with a weakness found irresistible, and got sucked into. They were wrong to let themselves be, of course, but that woman bewitched them. My former husband lived with her for a while after we separated, but he fell ill and died a long time ago. I imagine she sucked the life out of him. There are people who will do that.”
“I see . . .” I felt strangely touched to know that there was someone else who had gone through what Dad had.
I even thought, coolly, It was Dad’s fault for falling for it, then. How careless of him.
But I also wondered what could have happened to make a woman turn out like that—like a kind of black hole. I was connected with someone whose world was so alien to mine, I couldn’t even attempt to understand it, and not just by blood, but in more definite ways, too.
“So I’d like to visit your father’s grave, if I may,” the woman said.
“Oh, no, there’s no need. I’ll bear your kind wishes in mind when we hold the next memorial,” I said. I was afraid that Mom might fly into a rage if I told her about this.
“It’s hard for me to know that he died, you see . . . I feel that I’m partially responsible,” the woman said. Her eyes were teary. “If you wouldn’t mind, could you tell me where his ashes are buried? I’d just like to offer a prayer, and burn some incense. That’s all. It would put my mind at rest.”
“There’s really no . . . I’m still very confused, there are so many things I’m not ready to think about yet. I can tell you where the cemetery is, if that’s what you’d like. But please, leave my mother and me in peace,” I said.
“I understand how you must feel. I just want to make a brief visit. It will help me. Although, if you’re thinking of offering a service for him locally at any point, I know someone who would be able to help you, so please let me know.”
The woman looked into my eyes, and I saw that hers were clear, but brimming with tears. There was nothing troubling in them. I could tell she meant what she was saying, and I got the impression that she was free of the problem now, and happy.
“If you’re ever in Ibaraki, even if you’re just passing through, please get in touch. I live in Kashima. I feel it was my former husband’s fault, for living, that your father had to die. I keep thinking if my husband had taken that woman with him then, this would never have happened.”
“No, it was my father’s own fault,” I said.
“I don’t believe so. My husband involved himself with her in a halfhearted way, and the consequences of that went to your fa
ther. I’m so sorry. I still think about it, it’s been on my mind ever since I read it in the paper, and I thought that visiting his grave was the only thing I could do, so I had to come here,” she said.
I told her the name of the cemetery where Dad’s grave was. The woman and the dark man took each other’s arms, and walked off toward the station.
Dad—who was always seeing the best in everyone, who gave himself stomachaches from taking on other people’s problems, who always had the air of being the one who’d draw the short straw. That was what you did, I thought, and missed him terribly.
I’d been over everything so many times in my head, but when I started thinking about Dad, I just couldn’t let it go. Why, when nothing was going to bring him back, did I feel so strongly that I needed to do something for him?
It felt almost like being secretly in love with someone—wanting to help somehow, even if they didn’t even notice, or never knew. The feeling of wanting to have someone’s back, and longing to give them strength.
I WAS OVERCOME BY the desire to call Yamazaki-san, and gave in.
I called him from the Starbucks near the station on the east side, clutching my cell phone.
Why didn’t I want to call Shintani-kun in this situation? I wondered briefly. The reason was that I was afraid he’d drop everything to go to Ibaraki with me, and want to help out with doing whatever needed to be done. I wasn’t ready to close the distance between us so suddenly.
“Moshi moshi, hello?”
Yamazaki-san answered in the same voice he always did, and my agitation quieted immediately. I started to feel ashamed at having called him instead. The effect was immediate.
“It’s Yoshie. Do you have time to talk now?” I asked.
“Yes, I do. But what’s happened?” he said.
“Um, it’s nothing serious, but I can’t talk to Mom, and I wanted to tell someone, so I thought of you. A woman from Ibaraki came in to the bistro earlier, and told me her exhusband had made a suicide pact with that woman, too. He survived, but died later of ill health, but she asked to organize a prayer service for him in the forest, and, well, I panicked, and told her the name of the cemetery, and I think maybe I shouldn’t have done that. I wasn’t really thinking straight. I feel like I’ve lost track of what I’m doing, what’s right . . .” I said, and then regretted it instantly.
I was making a fool of myself. It sounded like I was coming on to him, feigning helplessness and acting like a child. But I had nowhere else to turn. Yamazaki-san’s voice was the only thing that could get through to me. Sometimes you did things even if you knew they were unwise. I understood just how much Dad must have relied on him, before.
I wanted to see Yamazaki-san’s face, and hear his voice—then I would feel safe. He would never make demands on me, and nor would he sacrifice anything for me, either. He had his own agenda and his own beliefs, and would never say anything that didn’t align with them. I trusted him to do that.
“A prayer service . . . for your Dad? Why? It’s nothing to do with her,” Yamazaki-san said, sounding incredulous.
“She says she feels guilty,” I said.
“I see, yes. I can see her point,” he said. My mind was quieting, and I could hardly recall now why I’d been so panicked a few minutes ago about having given the woman the name of the cemetery.
“If you’re thinking of going back there, would you like me to come with you? In case this woman turns out to be soliciting for a cult, or something. I’m assuming your mother would go, too? You might want a man along, in an isolated place like that. And I could drive,” he said.
I was glad. When it came to Dad, I had allies. Shintani-kun was another. His death had led to new relationships—things had been born, too. I wasn’t going to give up.
“I need to give it some more thought. May I call you again? I don’t want to tell my mother too much. She’s finally starting to get back to her old self—she’s just found a part-time job—and there aren’t many people who were actually close friends with Dad,” I said.
It had dawned on me while I was saying this that Shintanikun was too decisive, too proactive for me to discuss this with. I was afraid that if I took this to someone who was used to thinking in terms of getting results, a chain of actions might be put into motion without my agreement, and beyond my control.
“Well, he was too timid, and serious, and too much of a pessimist to have a lot of friends!” Yamazaki-san laughed. I laughed too, carefree, like I used to be when Dad was still around.
Even this insignificant conversation was more than just an exchange of words. Feeling confident that what you wanted to say had been safely received, the ease of knowing that the other person wasn’t putting themselves out, trusting them not to say anything they didn’t mean—Yamazaki-san and I had given each other all of those things, too. Because we both shared our best memories of the time when Dad was here, we were trying not to destroy a single precious piece.
“I think you should treat it as a celebration of sorts,” Yamazaki-san said. “I’d like to take part. I feel like doing something for him will be good for me, too. Every time I meet up with the rest of the band, we keep saying we should do a memorial show, a few years down the line. Whenever your mother feels ready to come, of course. So we can play all his songs without making anyone burst into tears. I bet he’ll hear it, wherever he is up there.
“And, I know! If we’re heading out to Ibaraki, we can stop by the Oarai aquarium on our way back. I’m an aquarium fan, too, same as Imo. We used to go visit them in downtime when we were on tour—Osaka, and Okinawa . . . and Ibaraki has hot springs, too. Let’s do it,” he said.
I knew he was making it sound like fun for my benefit, but his delight also sounded genuine enough that it raised my spirits. I was starting to picture how much lighter I’d feel, and how enjoyable it might be, if the three of us could visit that forest, offer up a prayer, and then go and do something fun on the way back.
“Thank you for the idea—I’ll see what Mom says, too,” I said.
THE LIGHTS IN THE Tsuyusaki Building looked even warmer in winter than they did at other times of the year.
It seemed like the light seeped into every nook and cranny of the dilapidated building, and out into the winter air. I’d loved that building, which Les Liens occupied part of, for a long time. The feeling of the shops lodging inside a space where people lived gave a softness to the whole street corner. The old windows and the loud, creaky stairs felt as though they belonged to a bank of nostalgic, shared experiences that everyone had known at some point.
The daily lives of the owners who lived upstairs, the cherry tree, the colorful shop signs—all of these cohered into a single impression that defined the atmosphere around the building. On gray, overcast days, I’d catch sight of its lights and feel warmth bloom in my chest. And in any season, I felt proud to work in the historic building.
That morning, when I arrived at the bistro, Michiyo-san looked downcast. Sitting at the bar, sorting through receipts with her eyes down, she was sending off an energy that was very different than usual.
“Has something happened? You seem a little low,” I said.
“This place is going to be demolished. I have to close the shop at the end of the year,” Michiyo-san said slowly.
“What??” I was so shocked, I said the first thing that came into my mind. “What’s going to happen to the restaurant? And me?” I realized that I’d come to assume, again, that things would stay the same as they were today: tomorrow, the day after, next month, next year. I knew it wasn’t true, but I never remembered that until things suddenly changed.
“No idea, I only heard today. I’d heard it was too run-down to restore, but it’s finally happened,” she said, quietly.
“I thought this building was some kind of protected cultural heritage. That it would be preserved,” I said, nonsensically, not yet grasping the enormity of the situation. At the same time, I marveled at how I was already getting used to the idea. The m
oment I heard the news, there was a space in which I accepted it, which grew as time went on. That went for everything.
“I thought so too, but apparently they can’t. It’s not that Mr. and Mrs. Tsuyusaki don’t want to, but there are complications with their landlord, who owns the plot. There’s nothing to be done,” Michiyo-san said.
“I see . . .” I nodded.
Michiyo-san looked at me, and said, “The thing is, I like this town, and I like our customers. This is where I want to work. So I’m going to take a few months off, go to France, and when I get back, maybe in six months, I’ll open a new place. I won’t find anywhere this cheap, because I agreed to rent knowing it was going to be taken down, so it’ll probably end up being slightly smaller, but I’ve got some savings, and I’ll make it work. So, Yocchan . . .”
“Yes.” Nervous, I waited.
“I’d like it if you’d come work at my next place, too. I can’t guarantee to pay you as much, but I’ll do my best, and I can give you two months’ pay while I’m on my break, as a thank-you.”
“I’m so glad! Oh, not about the money, I mean,” I said. “I’ll gladly follow you to your next restaurant. I love your food, and Shimokitazawa. I can even help you look for a new premises, if you like.”
“I appreciate it. Let’s focus on seeing this place out in style, first.” She smiled.
“Michiyo-san . . . When you go on your trip, will that be with someone, I mean a boyfriend, or friends, or . . .?” I asked.
“Nope, I’ll be solo. Not that I even have a man to bring. I haven’t had the time. Well, I’ll be seeing a girlfriend who lives in Paris when I get there, and on my way back. I’m thinking a month or two.”
“If I may . . . could I come with you? I don’t think I could afford to stay for two months, so maybe just for a few weeks. I’d like to see the direction you’ll be taking next with your food. I can’t speak French, so I’ll probably only get in your way, but I’d be grateful if you’d consider it,” I said, on the spur of the moment. For that instant, I’d forgotten all about Dad and been filled with a new strength.
Moshi Moshi Page 10
