Moshi Moshi

by Banana Yoshimoto

  Mom and I were probably each surprised at feeling this way, and also at finding out that the other felt exactly the same. Especially when we’d each held back, thinking the other might prefer to go somewhere in Meguro—somewhere from before.

  Having invoked the neighborhood we lived now, I had the distinct sensation of time coming back under our control. The air in the condo, which had been heavy, suddenly lightened. I think that was the moment we resolved to leave that house. We had no more regrets. We were both clear that there was nothing left to do there.

  As we were leaving, scuttling away with our bags, I was putting my shoes on in the entry.

  “You probably won’t like this idea,” Mom said, as though something had just occurred to her.

  I nodded. Somehow, I knew—I’d been thinking the same thing. “The photo of Dad? I don’t mind. Let’s take it.”

  “How did you know?” Mom said, surprised.

  “I thought we should, too,” I said.

  Mom nodded and went inside.

  She came back carrying the framed photo of Dad that had stood by his amp.

  “We’ll give him flowers every day, over there. I refuse to be defeated,” Mom said.

  “Yes, let’s do that,” I said.

  I already had a photograph of the three of us above the TV in my apartment. But Dad’s photo—the large, formal portrait that had stood at his funeral—was coming to our apartment for the first time.

  “And I support you in refusing to lose. Although in some ways, we’ve already lost a lot, already. I might even say irretrievably,” I said.

  “How are you even managing to joke about this?” Mom said, laughing pretty hard. She closed the door behind us, and turned the key in the lock as we left what had once been home, but probably never would be again. Of course I knew we’d be back again for one thing or another, but I felt like when I looked back afterward, I’d know that this was when we’d said good-bye.

  AFTER A DELICIOUS CURRY, we stopped by the small flower shop around the corner and bought a bouquet from the vivacious woman who worked there, who handed it to us with a smile, and went home and put it in a vintage milk bottle I’d found in an antiques store on Chazawa-Dori, and put it next to Dad’s photo. Then I poured some essential oil into the oil burner, and lit the tealight. Its small flame cast a wavering light on the wall, and the calming smell of lavender filled the room.

  Seeing Dad’s photo surrounded by things that were so definitely of this neighborhood, I felt that Dad now lived in Shimokitazawa, too.

  Something had come to an end, I thought, been settled somehow.

  “Hey, Mom? I’m not saying right away, but the condo . . . do you want to sell it? Let it out?” I said.

  “I’m leaning toward letting it,” Mom said. “My friend who lives in San Francisco is coming back in about a year, and I might sell or let it to her and her husband when they do. She knows the circumstances, and she offered to rent it furnished, and for a generous rate, if I wanted. They’re well-off, and she said since they wanted to live in Meguro anyway, it was the least she could do . . . So I guess I’ll have to get rid of some things, gradually, and maybe look for a different apartment here, so I can move out of your place? I can’t really take action yet, but that’s what I’m thinking,” Mom said.

  “That sounds like a good plan,” I said. “Dad won’t be lonely, then, either.”

  “Don’t worry about that, we moved him today. I’m leaving aside the unforgivable parts for the moment, but the main strand of his soul is here now, where it belongs,” Mom said.

  In the face of this assertion from Mom, his wife, I started to feel like it could be true.

  THAT NIGHT, I DREAMED about the phone again.

  The house in Meguro had been totally emptied.

  There were no memories there, aside from the marks on the wall. Even the piano was gone. A square of light shone onto the floor from the window.

  I was standing there in shock. Has the move already happened? I thought vaguely. That was quick. But wait, where do I live now? Where are my things? Am I still looking for somewhere to go?

  My phone rang. I took it out of my bag and answered.

  “Moshi moshi? Hello?” I said.

  “Moshi moshi,” said Dad.

  “It’s okay, your photo’s in Shimokitazawa already,” I said. Tears were rolling down my cheeks. “Dad, Dad, you don’t hate us, do you?” I said. He didn’t reply.

  I cried and cried, and couldn’t stay on my feet any longer, and fell to my knees on the living room floor where I had so often lain as a child. Soon it would be covered with new carpet and strange furniture.

  “I want to see you, Dad. Why do we have to talk on the phone?” I said.

  The other me was pointing out that I had more important things to tell him. But in dreams we were always exposed, foolish versions of ourselves. On the other end of the line, I felt the usual quiet presence of Dad, who didn’t hate us at all.

  Oh, I thought. He wanted to call. When he died—that was the thing he most wanted to do. I was sure of it.

  I WOKE IN THE middle of the night, and sat up suddenly in bed.

  The smell of lavender oil was still in the air, and the candle was still burning. Dad’s photo was in the room. He was smiling. He might already have been with that woman when the picture was taken, but he had still been alive and with us.

  This wonderful smell and the offering of flowers must have given him a route into my dream, I thought nonsensically, still half asleep. I figured Dad was all right, now. I didn’t know why, but the timing had been crucial. It couldn’t have happened on any other day.

  When I looked to my side, Mom was sleeping soundly. Some day, Mom and I would leave this world, too. But for now, she was here, and fast asleep, traveling through the dream world with her mouth half open. Here was someone I loved, who was still definitely here.

  Relieved, I lay myself back down. Still half in a dream, I felt around briefly for my phone, which I thought must be close by, but I quickly fell into a deep sleep.

  A feeling was enveloping me, a sense of relief that some of what I feared had finally gone. My apartment was full of a soft warmth, both inside my feather comforter and out.

  I realized that the prospect of Dad wandering around unable to move on hadn’t been the only thing I’d been afraid of. I’d actually been more anxious about the possibility that Mom had abandoned his memory and was moving forward without him.

  IT WAS A FEW weeks later that the customer from Ibaraki came to the bistro again, alone.

  We were at the peak of lunch service, and I had to make an effort to hide my annoyance.

  Why did she have to come and remind me about things when I was just starting to feel some peace, and when I’d finally stopped dreaming about Dad? I would have been happy to forget that the whole prefecture of Ibaraki even existed.

  “I’m sorry, I know it must be difficult for you to see me,” the woman said, and ordered her food apologetically.

  Even though it was difficult, I decided there was a limit to how aggrieved I could feel given that she was thinking of Dad and had come to the restaurant especially, even if she was in town for other reasons. I served her her food with a welcoming smile. The woman had a pleasant way of eating. She looked like she was really enjoying the taste of the food, and not as though she was eating it because she felt she had to in order to see me.

  You could always read a person’s state of mind in the way they ate a meal. No act or mask or correct table manners could fool the eyes of someone who watched people eat day in, day out, like I did.

  Plus, I thought, it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that her going to the cemetery had somehow contributed to Mom and me feeling easier about things recently. Things in the world could be connected in ways I didn’t necessarily understand.

  I took the plunge and spoke to her as I served her coffee. “Thank you for visiting my father’s grave when you were in town last time,” I said. “My mother and I ha
ven’t been able to go as often as we’d like, and we’re very grateful.”

  The woman’s nervous expression released, and she smiled in relief.

  I realized that she’d expected me to not want to talk to her. I’d been dreading seeing her again, myself, but when I looked into her eyes, the sincerity and goodwill there undid my defenses.

  “I struggled after it happened to me, and I really felt that I ought to come back and see you,” she said. “I’m sorry to have reminded you of things again. This is something I was given by the person I mentioned.” She reached into her backpack and took out a small cloth pouch. Inside it was another, pretty pouch, neatly embroidered.

  “What is it? Salt?” I said, taking a stab in the dark. I didn’t know much about this kind of thing.

  The woman nodded. How had I known? I wondered.

  “Yes, it’s salt. This person is one of the most psychically sensitive of anyone I know, and knew the background to it already, from when I’d asked for advice before. So I asked for something to help you. It might not do much, but you can take it with you when you visit his grave, or the place he died,” she said, smiling.

  That would be never, I thought, but I kept my mouth shut.

  This woman had been through a great deal—having her husband stolen and nearly murdered, a divorce, and then his death. No matter whether or not she’d managed to find happiness after that, I was honestly in awe of how she was able to be so kind that it was verging on prying to someone she’d never even met.

  If I were her, I’d have been afraid of getting chased away with salt myself.

  “The reason I’m doing all this,” said the woman, as though she’d sensed what I was thinking, “is because I feel that I understand—as much as anyone can—what you and your mother must be going through, more than anyone else in the world, as though we’re connected somewhere deep underground. How you don’t want to hate anyone, but you do. You don’t want to blame anyone, but you do. You don’t want to dwell on it, but you can’t help getting bogged down.”

  This was all true for me, so I nodded. “I’ve never spoken to anyone who, um, knows about things that can’t be seen, I guess. Did they say anything?”

  The woman looked down, and then seemed to make a decision, and looked at me again.

  “I was told—She is the kind of woman who brings out a longing for death in men, the more they sleep with her.”

  I felt like something had stabbed me in the chest.

  Every time I thought about it, Dad felt further and further away.

  “My friend also said that woman was only around to find someone to die with, that she was already no longer part of this world. That there was no need to pity her, but no reason to despise her, either. That it was her problem alone. But it’s difficult to feel that much acceptance about it, isn’t it?” she said, with a slightly unusual intonation. I suddenly wondered whether that dead woman had spoken like this, too, and shivered.

  “But those of us who are left go on living,” she said.

  Another table called for me, and I had to go.

  I let her give me the pretty cloth pouch with the salt in it.

  “Thank you. I’ll keep it safe. And when I’m able to visit the place where my father died, I’ll scatter it there,” I said.

  She drank her coffee slowly, and left with a smile—an unremarkably dressed, middle-aged woman with a rounded back and sturdy calves.

  Someone I’d probably never see again, but to whom I was irrevocably connected for life.

  Was that what it meant to be alive?

  It felt almost like magic.

  I WAS A FIRM believer in the idea that coincidences always came along at the right time. I felt there was some kind of reason for the way things happened as they did, like bubbles from my subconscious mind rising to the surface.

  Since that day, the distance between me and Shintani-kun had grown much closer. Maybe we felt safer with each other, having voiced things that had been on our minds. I was feeling guilty for having misinterpreted Shintani-kun’s reserve, and perhaps underestimated him a little. He was a lot more mature than I’d assumed, and genuinely seemed to have my interests at heart.

  To be honest, somewhere deep down, I’d been rebelling against the suspicion that Shintani-kun had been drawn to me out of pity, as the poor girl who’d lost her father. I was gradually coming to see it wasn’t true; that he understood more about me than that, and was attracted to all of me.

  Thus the disdain I’d had for him had faded.

  I still hadn’t stayed the night at his place, nor did we ever kiss or grope each other impulsively by the side of the road or in elevators like high schoolers. But whether we were standing or sitting, we found ourselves more often casually holding hands, or just sticking close to each other.

  One night after I’d finished work, as we left the bistro together, I was thinking how he wouldn’t be coming in just before closing to sit at the bar, like he always did, for much longer.

  At Les Liens we were slowly winding down, preparing for the end.

  One day, Michiyo-san and I were going through and tidying shelves, and I overheard her mutter, “I guess we won’t be serving the summer shave ices here again.”

  I felt the loss, too. I could still vividly recall the life-giving freshness of the barley salad, and the coldness of the shave ice, especially as they stood out against the backdrop of that rock-bottom summer.

  As we cleaned up, Michiyo-san and I told each other that this was only a temporary pause, a waypoint, a new start. That while everything came to an end sometime, our partnership would continue, and there would be a new shop soon. That this was no time for grieving.

  When we were done, Michiyo-san locked the door behind us and said, “I know we haven’t left yet, but that felt like good-bye.”

  Although I knew the building was being demolished, I’d taken to putting even more heart into cleaning it. I wanted to scrub the floor so it glowed even warmer, to wash the windows so they let in even more light. It was like how I might feel about someone I looked up to. Each time I cleaned, I did it as though it were my one chance to do it right.

  I almost wished I could feel this way about Dad. Most of the time, when I thought about him, I felt so resentful that he was gone that I gave in to disappointment and despair.

  SHINTANI-KUN WAS WAITING FOR me at Chizuru-san’s bar. He’d been wanting to try out an oatmeal stout that was on their menu called Shakespeare Stout. When I went down the stairs to the basement, through the seventies rock playing at high volume, I was greeted by the sight of him sitting at a table opposite Mom.

  The bar was a unique space that gave the impression of being entirely covered in a mosaic of handblown glass, like something made by a drunken Gaudí. A giant lizard looked down from the ceiling. The décor was indescribable, reminiscent of Azteca or Spain, and the floor was full of tables made of slabs of wood with their bumps and hollows intact. The music was always loud, but it was a friendly bar with a cozy atmosphere.

  That night, though, I wasn’t appreciating the décor, or looking around at the other customers. I was riveted to the sight of the two familiar people sitting opposite one another.

  It’s not that strange, I told myself, trying to seem calm. Mom comes here a lot, it’s not that much of a coincidence. I put on a smile and approached their table.

  “Hi, Yocchan,” Mom said. “Shintani-kun’s really nice.”

  “What are you two doing drinking together like old friends?” I said. My legs were swollen from being on my feet all day, and I sounded almost petulant. I felt disappointed by how immature I was being. The worst surprise, though, was that my first feeling on seeing them together wasn’t unqualified happiness. Truthfully, my gut reaction had been a kind of wariness, even dread.

  “Sorry, we ran into each other, and got chatting,” Shintani-kun said, looking genuinely apologetic.

  “It’s okay, I realize these things happen,” I said, and laughed. A waitress came by, so I to
ok a seat beside Mom, asked for the Red Fox Ale and some snow peas as I often did, and took off my coat.

  I sometimes came here alone since it was open late, or with Mom when we were feeling peckish, so really, it was no big deal.

  “Shintani-kun, I’m so glad we got to talk,” Mom said. She drained her mixed drink, and said, “I’ll see you back at home. I don’t want to crash your date.”

  You’re cool, Mom, I thought, but I said, “It’s okay, let’s walk home together.”

  “No thank you, you young people carry on. There’s something I’ve been meaning to watch on TV, as well. I meant to tell you—I got Hacchan from the bookstore to help me move the big TV from Meguro,” she said.

  “Into that poky apartment?” I said. “What did you do with the old one?”

  “I left it at the condo,” she said.

  “I can’t believe it,” I said. “That was left to me by a friend.”

  “But my eyesight’s not as good as it used to be, I could never see anything on that poky screen. Plus it was so chunky and old-fashioned. Anyway, wait till you get home. Because the room’s so small, everything looks really dramatic on it—it’s like being in a movie theater,” she said, smiling. “While I’m confessing, I should tell you I brought the smaller stereo, too.”

  “Wait, how much space do you think we have? Is there enough room left to lay out our futons?” I said, but inside I was secretly pleased. Mom was making an effort to enjoy her life as it was now. She was trying to integrate the past by bringing parts of her old home into the new one.

  “I’ll get the apartment warmed up for you. On the other hand, don’t feel you have to come home, if you don’t want to,” she said.

  “Hey!” I said, but she ignored me and paid our bill, and practically skipped up the stairs as she left.

  “It was bound to happen sooner or later, I guess, since we go to all the same places,” I said. I finally felt relaxed enough to start on my beer.