The Nakano Thrift Shop

by Hiromi Kawakami

  ‘What has happened, my dear Hitomi, is that you have stepped on his tail,’ Masayo said.

  ‘His tail?’ I asked in reply.

  ‘You know how a dog or a cat, when someone steps on their tail, they get mad as hell? Almost absurdly so?’ Masayo replied, her skin glowy and bright.

  The night before, Masayo had tried a cucumber and kiwi mask that Aunt Michi had told her about. Masayo had informed me about it as soon as she came into the shop, and without my even asking, she gave me the recipe for a ‘Kiwi Cucumber Beauty Treatment.’ It was written carefully in light blue fountain pen on pale pink stationery.

  Thanks, I said, quietly taking it from her. Masayo tilted her head.

  What’s wrong, Hitomi? You don’t seem like yourself these days.

  Well, yeah.

  I started talking in bits and pieces, and before I realized it, my tongue had loosened, and I found myself getting advice from Masayo about the situation with Takeo.

  ‘So it’s not fair for him to really be so angry, when a girl was just giving tit for tat, after what he said,’ I complained to Masayo, who took a moment to organize her thoughts, a serious look on her face.

  ‘In your twenties, you can say girl,’ Masayo said, her face still solemn.

  What do you mean? I asked, confused.

  ‘Once you’re in your thirties, you ought not to refer to yourself as a girl.’ Just when I thought she was going to give me some real advice, that was what she offered.

  I don’t see what’s wrong with it, as long as that’s how the person sees herself, I grumbled in response.

  ‘And what about in your fifties?’ Masayo asked, her expression growing even more serious.

  In my fifties, well! In my fifties, I would definitely consider myself a woman.

  In your fifties, well, would you? Masayo let out a sigh.

  A customer came in. It was one of our regulars, a man with a mane of white hair. Thick and full and white, that’s the best way to go, Mr. Nakano had once said with envy. I mean, compared with thin and black, or the usual salt and pepper.

  Masayo stood up and called out a greeting to the man. They chatted for a while. We haven’t had any plates come into the shop lately, she said. This customer bought a lot of platters, not quite antiques but outdated ones from the early twentieth century. They aren’t the kind of thing that often comes into your shop, the customer told Masayo chattily, but the ones that do are cheaper and of surprisingly good quality, compared to other shops. Whenever this customer dealt with Mr. Nakano or me, his taciturn and fastidious mien never even cracked.

  The man bought a small, shallow dish from the late 1920s or early 1930s. Smiling, Masayo bowed in thanks. She maintained her graceful smile until the customer had left. As soon as he was gone from view, Masayo resumed her usual animated expression and asked, ‘So, so, then what happened?’

  He doesn’t call or text me, I replied in a subdued voice.

  ‘And what about you, have you called or texted him?’

  But . . .

  ‘But what?’

  I’m scared to.

  Scared? she said, nodding. Of course, I understand. Boys are scary. And for no reason at all, sometimes. Masayo nodded repeatedly.

  That’s it—I’m scared, I thought to myself. Right now, I’m scared of Takeo. Me, who half-mocked him, who didn’t take him seriously.

  So, is it right to call him a boy, rather than a man? Masayo asked.

  Yes, he’s a boy, definitely not a man, I replied. I hadn’t actually told Masayo that it was Takeo we were talking about. Just what kind of boy is he, one of these young toughs around today? Masayo murmured with a certain amusement. He is definitely not one of those, I replied sullenly. Well, I don’t ever want to see him again. I won’t call or text him either. I could feel myself getting more and more furious as I spoke.

  My goodness, Masayo said. These kinds of things depend on how the person who’s involved reacts. There’s nothing for me to say, she stood up as she spoke. Another regular customer, who was in her thirties, had just come in.

  She’s definitely a woman, isn’t she? Masayo whispered softly to me, then she went to greet the customer with a beaming smile. Would you care for some tea with us? I was just about to make some, Masayo said merrily. Despite the fact that the two of us had just drunk three cups of black tea while we had been chatting.

  I’d be delighted, the woman replied floridly, and in unison, Masayo and she laughed in the same way.

  I had said that I wouldn’t see him again, but I couldn’t very well not see him at all.

  ‘Good morning,’ is all he ever said. But he said it every day. Besides that, he made no other conversation whatsoever.

  ‘Good morning,’ I replied, with deliberate politeness.

  It was uncomfortable at first, but Takeo didn’t linger in the shop the way he used to; as soon as he arrived he would head straight for the back door, where he’d be doing maintenance on the truck or packing up goods, so we were able to avoid the awkwardness of being in each other’s presence.

  That day was unusual in that Masayo didn’t show up. I was alone for the afternoon. Without Masayo there, we didn’t even get any window shoppers. Towards the end of the afternoon, a woman with a single item for a pickup brought it into the shop herself. She was carrying a rectangular white cube that looked heavy.

  ‘Here,’ she said, setting down the cube on the desk beside the register. She was a thin woman of about fifty. I had never seen her before.

  ‘How much can I get for it, I wonder?’ the woman asked. Her perfume was strong. It was sweet and floral, and didn’t seem to suit her at all.

  I can’t say until the owner of the shop returns, I replied. Really? the woman said, looking around as if appraising the shop. The bottom of the cube was set on the edge of the notebook that was spread open on the desk. When I tugged on the notebook, it made a sound like pfft.

  ‘Is it all right to leave it here?’ she asked.

  Yes, I replied. Please write down your address and telephone number, I said as I handed her the notepad and a ballpoint pen. She wrote down only her phone number.

  Mr. Nakano returned soon after. Takeo was with him.

  ‘Hey, isn’t that a sewing machine?’ Mr. Nakano said. Lately, when Takeo came back from pickups, he’d rush right home like the ebbing tide, without even pausing to wash his hands. But hearing Mr. Nakano, he turned his attention to the desk beside the register.

  ‘This customer said that she wanted a pickup,’ I said, trying not to look in Takeo’s direction.

  ‘These kinds of machines are a pain,’ Mr. Nakano said as he took hold of the top of the cube with both hands and lifted it up. The cover came off, revealing the body of the sewing machine.

  ‘Hey,’ Takeo said.

  ‘What is it?’ Mr. Nakano asked.

  ‘Is the one from the stand-up poster,’ Takeo said, and then clamped his lips together. His manner of speaking was curt, as if saying anything in front of me would put him at a disadvantage.

  ‘Oh, right, this is the same sewing machine that Seiko is holding up,’ Mr. Nakano said with a vacant air, utterly oblivious to the war of nerves that was secretly playing out between Takeo and me.

  The sewing machine was gleaming and white, as though it had been polished up. It looked even newer and brighter than the faded sewing machine that Seiko Matsuda was holding in the life-size stand-up poster.

  ‘But you know, machines are a pain for me to deal with,’ Mr. Nakano repeated, grimacing.

  ‘You get rice cakes from the rice cake maker, and sewing machines at the sewing shop, you know?’ Mr. Nakano muttered, not really to me or to Takeo. Neither of us responded.

  Mr. Nakano carried the sewing machine to the back room with its cover still off. He set it down beside Seiko Matsuda. The genuine article was only slightly bigger than the
sewing machine in the stand-up poster. I guess it’s not life-size after all, the real one is a little bigger, I said, in spite of myself. Hmm, they must have shrunk Seiko, Mr. Nakano said. No, they just trimmed her down a bit, I replied, and Takeo made a pluffing sound.

  I stole a glance over my shoulder and saw that Takeo was laughing. What are you laughing at? Mr. Nakano asked, in a drawling voice.

  It’s just, something strange about shrinking Seiko, Takeo said, and he laughed again. It’s odd, don’t you think? Mr. Nakano wondered. Definitely strange. Don’t you think? Takeo said.

  Mr. Nakano put the cover back on the sewing machine. We should probably sell the life-size stand-up poster together with the sewing machine, Mr. Nakano said as he went to close the shutter. I peeked at Takeo’s face, using the sidelong glance that was Takeo’s trademark. Takeo immediately stopped laughing. His face suddenly resumed its cold expression. Unable to speak, I just stood there, motionless.

  We were different from each other in the first place—it’s not surprising that two people with nothing in common would end up like this, I thought to myself as I threw caution to the wind and continued to steal glances at Takeo’s face.

  As it turned out, Seiko sold for no more than 50,000 yen.

  ‘I wonder what was wrong with the sewing machine Seiko?’ Mr. Nakano lamented.

  ‘I know, and even when a sewing machine is a basic necessity,’ Masayo said, also sounding puzzled.

  In an auction, it’s always during the last five minutes that the number of bids surge, creating a sharp increase in the price, but our Seiko ended up selling for a bid that was put in late the night before. Mr. Crane explained this when he came to pick up the packed-and-ready Seiko Matsuda.

  It just so happened that the winning bidder was a man who lived very near to Mr. Crane, so he was going to deliver it himself.

  ‘Sure you can carry that by yourself, Tokizo?’ asked Mr. Nakano, who had assumed that Tokizo had come by car, but in fact the Crane had walked.

  ‘Takeo, get the truck out,’ Mr. Nakano said, and Tokizo’s laughter echoed through the shop.

  Takeo headed straight for the back and brought the truck out. Still in the driver’s seat, he gave a little toot on the horn. Mr. Crane laughed again, and then he left the shop and stood beside the truck. Mr. Nakano was laying Seiko down on the truck’s flatbed.

  Mr. Crane rested his arm on the part of the truck between the door and the flatbed, and his body appeared to go limp.

  ‘Can’t you open the door?’ Mr. Nakano asked him, and Tokizo shook his head. I’m getting there. Just out of shape, this old man.

  When he said ‘this old man,’ it sounded more like ‘soul man.’ Before long Masayo appeared and stood near Tokizo. She remained still, just watching his movements. Tokizo was now in front of the door to the truck, and then he started to stretch his arms.

  A customer had come in, so I went into the shop by myself. It was the same guy, the regular who always buys platters. When he noticed that Masayo was there, he craned his neck in her direction.

  My cellphone chimed. The customer turned around. I put the phone, which had been left out on top of the desk, in my pocket. Masayo seemed eternally glued to Tokizo’s side, and when she didn’t come back into the shop, the man ended up leaving in a huff. I pulled the phone out of my pocket.

  I had an email. It was from Takeo. I hurriedly scanned it, but there was no subject or message. Just the name ‘Takeo Kiryu’ in the field for sender. Another customer came in. He bought two second-hand T-shirts and left. Tokizo, Masayo, and Mr. Nakano were bustling about and chatting away in front of the shop. I couldn’t really see Takeo.

  I heard Mr. Nakano’s laughter. Feeling somewhat desperate, I sent a reply to Takeo’s email. Just like him, I left the subject and body of my message blank.

  Hey there, Hitomi, Masayo called out loudly from outside the shop. Yes? I replied. I still couldn’t really see Takeo.

  When you get old and far-sighted, you can’t look your sweetheart in the eye from close up. You need a little distance, so that you can focus on each other. So that your faces don’t look blurry—anyway, you need a little distance. Masayo said all this loudly enough so that I could hear her from inside.

  I was mystified by this sudden pronouncement. Mr. Crane gave a belly laugh. Masayo laughed too. Inside the truck, Takeo appeared to be completely still.

  I brought my mailbox back up on the screen of my phone and read the message from Takeo one more time. It being blank, I suppose I should say I looked at it rather than read it.

  The scene in front of me—Masayo and Mr. Nakano and Tokizo, the three of them standing there chatting—seemed to loom and recede before my eyes. You can’t look your sweetheart in the eye from close up, really, you can’t, Masayo said again. Her voice echoed unpleasantly in my ears.

  Takeo’s was the only voice I could not hear. I never would have expected to fall for someone like him. What if you sold Sakiko’s novel on the Internet? Masayo was saying. ‘I’m not sure I can handle something like that,’ Mr. Crane said, his laughter resounding. His entire body trembled. The scene steadily loomed and receded. I had no idea whether that kind of full-body quaking felt good or if it felt weird.

  The truck’s engine stopped, and Masayo, Mr. Nakano, and Tokizo continued to bustle and crowd around the storefront. I couldn’t see Takeo. Still clutching my phone, I turned my back away from the front of the shop.

  Shifting from the brightness to the shadows, at first my vision couldn’t make out the distinct contours of my surroundings. Soon enough I began to distinguish the actual sewing machine that was left behind after the life-size Seiko had been carried away.

  The sewing machine appeared in the corner, dull and white amidst the dimness of the back room. I could hear Tokizo’s resonant laughter, carrying remarkably clearly from the front of the shop.

  DRESS

  I decided to call Takeo’s cellphone, just once, every day.

  Today, I called at two fifteen in the afternoon.

  I figured he would already be completely finished with the pickup. He had left in the morning, and it was in the next neighborhood over, so even if the streets were jammed it shouldn’t take more than an hour to get there. Then an hour to negotiate with the client and load the goods, with half an hour to stop for lunch. The weather was nice today, so he might doze off under the shade of a tree, and then, twenty minutes later, just as he is dazedly waking up, my phone call comes in—that was the timing that I envisioned when I tried calling.

  Takeo didn’t answer.

  Maybe he hadn’t taken a nap today. In which case, when I called at two fifteen, he would be right in the middle of driving the truck. His phone had rung, so he must be in range of the network. Had he not heard it? That must be it—nowadays Takeo has become a stickler for etiquette, and he must be keeping his cellphone on silent mode so that it doesn’t ring in front of customers.

  As my mind raced with these thoughts, I felt the energy suddenly drain from my entire body.

  I wondered why Takeo wouldn’t answer my calls.

  Yesterday I called at 11:07 in the morning. He might still be sleeping, I thought to myself as it rang, and just as I expected, he didn’t answer. I had no way of knowing whether he had actually been asleep, or awake and purposely did not answer.

  The day before that I tried calling exactly at seven o’clock in the evening. It had been after four o’clock when Takeo left the shop, so assuming he didn’t stop anywhere on the way, it was reasonable to expect that he would be home at that time. But he didn’t answer. Might have been eating dinner. Or it’s possible that he was taking a bath. Or, who knows, he may have been struck by the urge to race a nanahan motorcycle around the streets at night. Then again, Takeo didn’t have a motorcycle.

  I tried to imagine all of the situations in which Takeo could not answer his cellphone when it rang.

&nbs
p; Such as, when he went to push the button to answer, his finger slipped because of the grease on his hand from the cream bun he was eating (Takeo had previously revealed to me that custard-filled buns were his favorite pastry), and instead of hitting the answer button, he disconnected the call.

  Like, he tried to answer the phone that he keeps in his back pocket, but he’s recently gained a little weight and his backside is bigger so his pockets are tighter, and he had a hard time pulling out his cellphone.

  Or maybe, an old lady he doesn’t know fell down right in front of him, and he was in the process of carrying her to the hospital on his back, so there was no way he could have answered his cellphone.

  Or else, he was snatched away by a nefarious underground gang and he was being held captive in a cave, where even if he tried to answer his cellphone, he couldn’t see the buttons in the dark.

  While I was imagining these things, I felt the energy drain from my body again.

  I hate cellphones, I thought to myself. Who the hell invented something so inconvenient anyway? There has been no greater evil for love affairs—those that are going well as much as those that are going badly—due to the greatly increased ability to receive phone calls no matter where you are, no matter what the situation. In the first place, since when was I actually in love with Takeo? And just what was I trying to determine, by constantly calling him?

  I spent the entire day thinking about things that I knew Masayo would chide me about for being so pessimistic. Five days already that Takeo hadn’t answered my calls! The past day or two, I’d been feeling anxious about what I’d do if he actually did answer the phone.

  Suddenly Takeo answered. My breath caught. But Takeo didn’t say a word. I made another little sound, like an ‘ah.’ This time my voice sounded darker than before. Takeo still didn’t say anything.

  My fear made me want to run away screaming.

  Takeo, I ventured in a murmur. That was the end of it.