The Nakano Thrift Shop

by Hiromi Kawakami

  From the interior room, Masayo brought out a yosegi puzzle box. I see, it’s beautiful, I said, and Masayo smiled, lowering the tips of her eyebrows. Traditional things are nice, aren’t they? Isn’t it beautiful? I nodded ambiguously. The Nakanos certainly liked things with tradition.

  Please save the pastry for Mr. Maruyama, I said, sliding back the apple pie that Masayo had placed before me. Really? Masayo said as she carefully put it back into the box. Then she covertly ran her fingers over the Hakone puzzle box.

  ‘What should I tell Mr. Nakano?’ I turned to ask Takeo.

  ‘Whatever you see fit,’ he replied, sipping his lemon sour. With the 10,000 yen I got from Masayo, I had ended up going out drinking with Takeo.

  Even with a little booze in him, Takeo still didn’t say much. Do you ever watch movies? What video games do you like? Mr. Nakano’s shop is a good place to work, isn’t it? This liver sashimi is pretty good, don’t you think? I dropped questions, one by one.

  Not much. The usual. Yeah, it is. That was about all I could get out of him. Yet I could tell that he didn’t really mind, because from time to time he would look up and our eyes would meet.

  ‘Masayo seemed as if she was on cloud nine, for some reason.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she be, she’s got a man,’ Takeo said unemotionally.

  I couldn’t help but blurt out, ‘Takeo, whatever happened with your girlfriend?’

  ‘Nothing happened.’

  Been without a girlfriend for four months, Takeo said, taking another sip of his lemon sour. Been without a boyfriend for two years, two months, and eighteen days, I retorted. What are you talking about, eighteen days? Takeo gave a slight laugh. There was something about the way Takeo laughed that made him seem more callous than when he didn’t.

  He’s heavy, Masayo had said. Maruyama is heavier than he appears. She murmured as her fingers stroked her souvenir from Hakone. By heavy, do you mean his weight? I asked. Masayo seemed to raise her crescent-moon shaped brows as she stifled a laugh and replied, Hmm, well, I guess you could say that.

  Seeing Takeo’s callous expression had reminded me of the sound of Masayo’s stifled laughter. As if from deep within her throat—how should I describe it? Yes, there was something obscure about it. Subtle. A mysterious sound.

  ‘Takeo, do you think you’ll keep working at Mr. Nakano’s shop?’

  ‘Who knows.’

  ‘Mr. Nakano is a strange guy, isn’t he?’

  ‘Hmm, guess he is.’ Takeo had a slightly faraway look in his eyes. Then he touched his left little finger with his right hand. Takeo’s right little finger, with its missing first joint, was stroking the intact tip of his left little finger. I watched this movement for a moment, then asked if I could touch it, and he let me feel the tip of his damaged right little finger.

  While I did this, with his left hand Takeo lifted his glass mug and, tilting his head back, he drank down what was left of his lemon sour.

  ‘A paperweight, she said,’ I said, as I let go of Takeo’s little finger.

  ‘A paperweight?’

  Maruyama was like a paperweight. That’s what Masayo said. Don’t you think so, Hitomi? When a man is on top, don’t you ever feel like paper being held down by a paperweight?

  By paperweight, do you mean like the thing that comes with a calligraphy set? I asked in response, and Masayo furrowed her brows. This is why I can’t stand young people! They’ve barely ever used a paperweight! I’m not talking about calligraphy paper—this is something that’s used to hold ordinary things down, Masayo said, poking her fork at the slivers of millefeuille scattered on her plate.

  There are paperweights in Mr. Nakano’s shop. That’s right. Paperweights are very practical. I use one to hold down papers in the box where I keep receipts. Otherwise, when the receipts pile up, they’ll go flying out of the box and all over the place. That’s why I hold them down with a paperweight, you see.

  As Masayo said this to me, I recalled the times when I myself had felt like a flimsy piece of paper, being held firmly in place by a paperweight.

  ‘I wonder if you’re heavy, Takeo.’ I seemed to be getting drunker. Seeing as I was the one who had asked that question.

  ‘Want to give it a go?’

  ‘No, not right now,’ I said.

  ‘Anytime you want to try, fine with me.’

  Takeo’s eyes looked drowsy too. He didn’t seem like he was very heavy. Mr. Nakano too, he seemed pretty light. That night, I had spent almost 6,000 yen. Both Takeo and I were totally wasted, and on the way home we kissed twice. The first time was just before we reached the park, our lips brushed against one another’s; the second time was next to some shrubbery in the park, and when I tried to use my tongue, Takeo seemed to draw back slightly.

  ‘Uh, sorry,’ I said, and Takeo replied, ‘No problem,’ as he dutifully stuck his tongue in my mouth. He said it as he was doing it, though, so it sounded like, ‘Ro robrem.’

  What does that mean, no problem? I started laughing, so Takeo laughed too, and sadly, we stopped kissing. Bye-bye, I said and waved my hand. Instead of ‘Thanks,’ his usual parting words, he replied in turn, repeating my ‘Bye-bye.’ But there was something terribly unconvincing about Takeo’s version of ‘Bye-bye.’

  Masayo was by herself. The man wasn’t there. At least not when I visited, I reported back to Mr. Nakano. Hmm, that’s very good, he said. Takeo was carrying the bench outside the shop.

  It had been a long time since the weather was fair. Mr. Nakano expertly arranged the usual task lamps, typewriters, and paperweights atop the bench.

  ‘Ah, the paperweights,’ I murmured, and Takeo cast a glance in my direction.

  ‘There’re the paperweights,’ Takeo echoed quietly.

  ‘What, is “paperweight” some kind of password between the two of you?’ Mr. Nakano cut in.

  ‘Not really,’ Takeo said.

  ‘Not really,’ I echoed.

  Mr. Nakano shook his head and turned towards the back of the shop, where they kept the truck. There were supposed to be three pickups that day. Takeo, he called out. Takeo quickly followed him.

  Perhaps because of the fine weather, there were customers coming and going all day long. On a typical day, most customers just came in to browse and then left, but today there were several who approached the register to make a purchase. Whether it was a small dish or a second-hand T-shirt—small price-tag items, all of them—the ka-ching of the register rang out incessantly throughout the day. It got dark during the rush, and yet the flow of customers did not ebb. Even when the usual closing time of seven o’clock came around, people who seemed to be on their way home from work continued to trickle into the shop. By eight o’clock, Mr. Nakano and Takeo had finished the last pickup and returned, but there were still two customers in the shop, so I had only pulled the shutter half-closed.

  ‘We’re back,’ Mr. Nakano said as he came in. Takeo followed after him in silence.

  Hearing the sound of the shutter, one of the customers left, and the other one brought his purchase to the register.

  The customer had an ashtray and a paperweight; it was the ashtray that Mr. Nakano always made sure not to use, a typical freebie from somewhere.

  ‘Mr. Nakano, how much is this?’ I asked, looking from the ashtray to Mr. Nakano. He came over to the register.

  ‘I can see, sir, from the fact that you have selected that paperweight, you have a good eye,’ Mr. Nakano laid it on chattily. Is that right? the customer responded, not without a certain satisfaction.

  ‘As for the ashtray, five hundred—no, you can have it for four hundred and fifty yen,’ Mr. Nakano went on smoothly.

  With no expression on his face, Takeo was stacking the miscellaneous cardboard boxes stuffed with assorted items acquired from the pickups near the entrance to the shop.

  After the customer left, Mr. Nakano r
attled the shutter all the way closed. I’m starving, he said. So am I, Takeo replied. I’m hungry too, I added last. How about three bowls of katsudon? Mr. Nakano said as he reached for the telephone receiver.

  While we were eating the pork cutlets over bowls of rice, Mr. Nakano asked us about the paperweights, but both Takeo and I feigned ignorance. The smell of sweat rose from both Mr. Nakano and Takeo. After Takeo finished eating his katsudon, he suddenly burst into laughter. Hey, what are you laughing about? Mr. Nakano wanted to know. Takeo managed to say, ‘The ashtray,’ before breaking into peals of laughter again. Annoyed, Mr. Nakano stood up and started rinsing the dishes.

  On a shelf next to the cardboard boxes that Takeo had stacked up earlier, the turtle paperweight—the one that was always displayed as a pair with the rabbit paperweight that the customer had bought—was left all by itself. The steady sound of the water that Mr. Nakano was running echoed through the darkened shop, while Takeo just kept on laughing.

  BUS

  I’ll be damned—there are tickets for two here,’ Mr. Nakano said as he pulled a pair of airline tickets from a registered mail envelope. The opening of the envelope was torn to shreds. On the whole Mr. Nakano tended to handle things a bit roughly, despite the fact that being the owner of a thrift shop requires a certain degree of carefulness.

  ‘Tamotsu Konishi’s father-in-law died,’ Mr. Nakano went on.

  I see, Takeo said, nodding in the perfunctory way he always did. I see, I had also replied, our voices in unison. This was the first I had heard of Tamotsu Konishi.

  ‘Tamo has always seemed like he was brought up well, come to think of it. Exactly the kind who would send airline tickets for two.’ Mr. Nakano was deeply impressed.

  ‘He wants me to come all the way to Hokkaido. This coming weekend. It would be for work, in theory. For a pickup, or more likely, an appraisal,’ Mr. Nakano explained, his eyes opening wide as he held the airline tickets—two round trips, four sheets total—lightly between his fingers. First he looked at Takeo. Then his gaze shifted in my direction.

  Professional appraisals—is that something you do, Mr. Nakano? I asked. Mr. Nakano shook his head slightly. Not really. I don’t have much of an eye for it.

  ‘Why would Tamo have asked me to do an appraisal?’ Mr. Nakano grumbled, as he spat into a tissue. My lungs, these days, they’re not so much. This had become a refrain of his lately. Takeo and Hitomi, you both should be glad you don’t smoke. As for me, I could quit whenever I want to, but . . . I want to honor my right not to quit, or something. That’s what it’s like at my age.

  Whether or not Takeo was listening to what Mr. Nakano was saying, he took the keys to the truck and went straight out the back.

  Who is Mr. Konishi? I felt obliged to inquire.

  ‘A friend from high school.’

  I see, I said, nodding again. I had a hard time imagining Mr. Nakano in high school. Had he worn a school uniform with a stand-up collar? Had he and this buddy of his walked home together while bolting down croquette sandwiches or some other snack? Had the whites of his eyes been clear—maybe even bluish—rather than cloudy, like they were now?

  ‘That Tamo, never without a woman, even back then,’ Mr. Nakano said with a gentle inhalation. Then he spat into the tissue again.

  ‘He played the field quite a bit, then married a rich girl and ended up living with her family up in Hokkaido.’

  I see, I said, nodding for the third time.

  ‘And she’s quite a looker too.’

  I gave up on nodding along and looked him straight in the face. Mr. Nakano seemed as though he was about to say something else, but I began to turn the pages of the notebook we kept for the shop, and he got up. Takeo, Mr. Nakano called out as he headed towards the back. The two of them were going for a pickup.

  This pickup was at the home of an acquaintance of Masayo’s. They were long-time landowners, so there were sure to be some good finds, Masayo had said, but Mr. Nakano had replied, as he slowly made his preparations, ‘With landowners’ homes, it can be either very good or very bad, you know.’

  At the sound of Mr. Nakano and Takeo pulling away in the truck, I let out a sigh for no particular reason. Takeo and I had plans to go out that night. I had been the one to invite him.

  ‘Been a long time since I had a date,’ Takeo said as he took a seat. Takeo had chosen to meet at this café, which seemed as if it had been around for more than thirty years.

  ‘The guy who painted the murals on the walls, what’s his name again?’

  ‘Seiji Togo.’

  ‘There’s something nostalgic about them, isn’t there?’

  ‘I don’t know much about them.’

  ‘But you know his name, don’t you?’

  ‘Sorry, was just by chance.’

  ‘You don’t have to apologize to me.’

  ‘Is a habit, sorry.’

  ‘There you go again.’

  ‘Right.’

  When Takeo had returned to the shop earlier that evening, the back of his T-shirt had been soaked through with sweat, but as he sat before me, a faint scent of soap wafted from his body.

  ‘Do you not hear from your ex-girlfriend any more?’

  ‘Sorry, not at all,’ Takeo said flatly.

  ‘There you go again.’

  ‘Right.’

  Takeo ordered black tea. With lemon. As he spoke, he bowed his head slightly at the lady who ran the café. Either he bowed his head, or he tucked in his chin. There was always something awkward about Takeo’s movements.

  ‘Do you come here a lot?’

  ‘It’s cheap, and not too crowded.’

  I gave a little laugh. Takeo laughed too. He may be awkward, but then again, I’m awkward too. Do you want to get something to eat? Takeo asked. Sure, I replied.

  We went to a yakitori restaurant, where we ate salted liver, wing tips, and tsukune meatballs. Something called ‘crispy vinegared chicken skin’ was on the menu, so I ordered it, and when I did so, Takeo murmured, ‘Vinegared?’

  ‘Do you not like pickled things?’ I asked.

  ‘I used to have to drink vinegar every day,’ Takeo replied.

  Who made you? My ex-girlfriend. Why? She said it worked.

  That’s strange—what did it work for? I asked with a laugh, but Takeo didn’t respond.

  At the end of the meal, Takeo ordered a bowl of rice, and I watched as he polished it off with the crispy vinegared chicken skin and some pickles. I nursed what was left of my lemon sour. I invited you so it’s my treat, I said, but Takeo immediately stood up and walked to the register with the bill in hand. At first his steps were light, but when he reached the register he stumbled, even though there didn’t appear to be anything there to stumble over. I pretended not to see.

  Once we left the restaurant, I said, ‘That was like a real date.’ Takeo knit his brows together as he parroted, ‘A real date?’

  The night was still young, and the club barkers in their black suits were chattering away, shoulder to shoulder in the street. Should we get another drink? Takeo asked, and I nodded. We went into a seedy-looking bar that was off the main drag, where Takeo ordered the cheapest bourbon with soda, and I drank a piña colada. I had asked for a white drink, and that was what had arrived.

  We each had two drinks, and then we left. While we were walking, Takeo took my hand. We walked along, awkwardly, hand in hand. When we neared the station, Takeo let go of my hand. See ya, he said, and went into the station. I saw him off at the ticket gate, but he didn’t turn around, not even once. I was still hungry, so I stopped at a convenience store and bought a pudding. When I got back to my apartment, the light was blinking on my answering machine. The message was from Takeo. ‘Sorry, that was fun,’ was all that he said.

  There was no modulation in his voice. In the background I could hear the station announcements. While I listened
to the recording, I tore the lid off the pudding and ate it little by little. I rewound the message three times, listening to the sound of Takeo’s voice. And then, I carefully pressed the erase button.

  Mr. Nakano left for Hokkaido at the weekend.

  ‘Takeo, do you want to come along with me?’ Mr. Nakano had asked, but Takeo declined.

  It’s a free trip to Hokkaido—why wouldn’t you go? I asked Takeo furtively afterwards. He fixed his gaze on me and said, ‘I’m afraid of airplanes.’

  You’re joking? I laughed, but Takeo continued to stare fixedly at me.

  ‘Also figure Mr. Nakano would most likely ask me to pay for my own hotel, and maybe even a bit of the airfare too.’

  He wouldn’t do that! But even as I said those words, I had to admit that Mr. Nakano might do just such a thing, and I admired Takeo’s foresight.

  Unaware of our speculations, Mr. Nakano left for Haneda airport early on Friday morning. Presumably he had already been refunded for the extra airline ticket. He told us that he planned to meet up in Hokkaido with a colleague in the business, and the two of them would arrive at Tamotsu Konishi’s house as if they had travelled there together from Tokyo.

  ‘That’s pretty tight-fisted, Mr. Nakano.’

  ‘Hitomi, you should appreciate the fact that I am so honest with you,’ he replied. I would never understand him.

  The ticket that Tamotsu Konishi sent had an open return.

  ‘Only God knows when I’ll be back,’ Mr. Nakano had crowed, and Masayo, who had arrived at the shop just as he was leaving, let out a laugh.

  ‘We don’t get many customers, so I might just retire and leave the whole shop up to Hitomi and Takeo,’ Mr. Nakano went on.

  ‘In that case, I’ll take over,’ Masayo declared breezily.

  ‘Sis, we’d go bankrupt in no time with you running the shop—such as it is.’

  ‘“Such as it is?”—it doesn’t sound like you think much of your own shop.’