The Nakano Thrift Shop

by Hiromi Kawakami

  Despair (it seemed to me like an iron ball about the size of a dodgeball) felt like it was lodged in my belly and, as I crossed both my arms over it, I considered at what time tomorrow I should call Takeo. There were two pickups, so I would aim for the time in between. And because it was a bill-paying day, I should allow for extra driving time. So far I hadn’t left any messages on his voicemail, but maybe tomorrow I ought to try to leave a word or two, in as nonchalant a voice as possible. So maybe the time to put it into play would be around 2.37?

  Put it into play? What am I talking about? I’m still not sure whether or not I really want to keep calling Takeo if he’s not going to answer the phone.

  Two thirty-seven.

  In my empty head, I repeated the appointed time—once, twice, three times.

  ‘Are you on a diet or something?’ Masayo asked.

  ‘Hitomi loses weight in the summertime,’ Mr. Nakano answered for me.

  Even if she loses weight in the summertime, it’s already the end of October, isn’t it? Masayo laughed, and Mr. Nakano did too.

  After a brief moment, I tried to laugh a little myself. Eh heh heh—as I listened to my own voice, I was surprised that I was able to laugh at all.

  I’ve lost three kilos, I said quietly.

  Wow, I’m so jealous! Masayo’s voice rang out.

  I shook my head slightly. And then, realizing what I was doing, I tried to laugh again, ‘Eh heh heh.’ This time, it didn’t go so well. The first and the last sounds came out sounding hoarse and husky.

  Mr. Nakano went out. Masayo settled herself in. Her exhibit of doll creations would finally take place the week after next. Nevertheless, Masayo had been spending all her time in the shop, her face placid, even as she admitted, ‘It’s a bit on the thin side—to put it bluntly, I don’t have nearly enough pieces.’

  ‘Will it be all right?’ I asked Masayo.

  ‘It’ll be fine. After all, it’s just a hobby—I make them for my own pleasure,’ Masayo replied in a lilting tone. Had Mr. Nakano ever suggested such a thing, Masayo would have probably flown into a rage, but apparently it was fine for her to say so.

  A customer had hesitated by the entrance, debating whether or not to come inside. When this happened, the Nakano shop way was to pretend we didn’t notice. With my eyes downcast, I opened and closed the notebook on the desk beside the register. Masayo was staring into mid-air, looking as if nothing had happened.

  The customer did not come inside.

  It was a beautiful day. The sky was clear, dotted with faint cirrocumulus clouds that looked as though they had been swept here and there.

  So, Hitomi, Masayo said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What’s been happening, since then?’ Masayo was still staring into mid-air. She asked without looking in my direction.

  What do you mean, what’s been happening? I asked in reply.

  ‘With that boy.’

  Oh.

  ‘Oh is not an answer.’

  Yes.

  ‘Neither is yes.’

  Well.

  ‘Well isn’t either. You like this boy, Hitomi, enough to lose weight over him.’

  Isn’t it misleading, to put it that way? I replied without much conviction.

  ‘You must really have been in love with him, Hitomi, to lose this much weight over him.’

  There seemed to be something quite ominous about her use of the past tense.

  ‘So, is it still going on?’ Masayo asked, her eyes opening wide. Masayo’s voice, brimming with vitality, jarred my fragile eardrums. I wanted to cover my ears, but I didn’t have the strength to make that much effort.

  ‘I’m not sure how to say, whether it’s still going on.’

  Masayo’s curiosity-filled expression was drifting through the dry autumn air. It was all I could do to return her intense gaze listlessly.

  ‘Are you seeing him?’

  No.

  ‘Are there phone calls?’

  No.

  ‘Emails?’

  No.

  ‘Do you still love him?’

  . . . No.

  ‘Well, then, it’s good that you broke up, isn’t it?’

  I was silent.

  What is that? Masayo laughed. Hitomi, my dear, take a little time off. Haruo says the same thing—Hitomi has been acting strange lately. I’m worried about her, he said. He has his good points, that kid does. But just as these words came out of his mouth, he goes on with, You know, it’s almost like Hitomi is possessed by a weasel, or a badger, or a spotted seal—some kind of weird animal—don’t you think? Oh, I’m sorry! He didn’t mean it out of spite. Really, he can be insensitive, that kid. Even with a mistress! But in the end, he always lets them get away. I told him, It’s not that Hitomi is possessed, she’s just a young girl. And young girls and young boys—you see, everyone has their troubles. Just like Haruo and his mistress—they don’t have thick skin. Well, the truth is, I’ve always known that kid is quite lily-livered.

  Masayo’s chatter was incessant, like clear water gushing forth from a spring deep in the forest. Before I knew it, there were tears trickling from my eyes. Not quite crying, it felt more like an automatic overflow of liquid.

  There was something weirdly cozy and comforting about the sound of Masayo’s voice. Oh, my dear Hitomi, what’s the matter? I heard her say as my tears fell in big drops onto my lap. That coziness reminds me of something, I thought. I know—it’s like when you wake up with a hangover, without even the strength to barf but somehow you manage to throw up anyway—it was warm and fuzzy like that.

  First of all, Hitomi, go to the back room. Then, you and I are going to have a nice hot lunch, Masayo was saying. As my tears spilled over intermittently, I heard Masayo’s voice as if it were the autumn wind howling far off in the distance.

  The tears made a faint pitter-patter when they fell on my lap.

  Recently Mr. Nakano had been obsessed with Chinese hanging scrolls.

  ‘You know what I mean? These are easy money,’ Mr. Nakano said as he slurped up the soup from his tanmen noodles.

  After taking a little break in the back room, my tears had stopped. Masayo had promptly fixed me ‘a nice hot lunch.’ As usual, that meant tanmen noodles.

  ‘They’re a little salty today, aren’t they?’ Mr. Nakano said, exhaling the smoke from his cigarette.

  ‘Stop smoking while we’re eating!’ Masayo said as she lifted her chin haughtily. Mr. Nakano hastily thrust his cigarette into the ashtray. Then he noisily drank his soup. Each time he took a breath in between sips, he frowned. I would never understand him—don’t drink the soup if it’s so salty, then.

  ‘The Chinese buyers, you know, they come here themselves to buy them.’ Having polished off his soup, Mr. Nakano relit the cigarette that he had stubbed out just a moment ago.

  ‘Are these Chinese scrolls old?’ Masayo asked.

  No, they’re pretty recent. I mean, not more than five hundred years old, Mr. Nakano replied with his cigarette in his mouth as he carried his bowl to the sink, deftly catching the falling ashes with the airborne bowl.

  Lately the economy in China is booming, and more and more enthusiasts are buying up scrolls made in China that have managed to find their way out of there. What’s more, it’s not ones from the Ming and Qing dynasties—instead they prefer ones from after the Cultural Revolution that don’t even really have much value.

  ‘Hmm, I wonder, is that similar to the vogue in Japan for things from the Showa era?’ Masayo murmured.

  Don’t be stupid, sis! You can’t compare China and Japan—they’re completely different countries! Mr. Nakano scolded her.

  You’re the stupid one! Masayo retorted under her breath after Mr. Nakano had gone out into the shop, looking over at me with a smirk. I had been drinking the tea that Masayo had brewed for me. Its w
armth made my throat tingle.

  ‘You know,’ Masayo said.

  Yes? I replied as I sipped the tea audibly.

  ‘I’ve given it some thought.’

  Yes?

  ‘This boy is alive, isn’t he?’

  What? I exclaimed. Wh-what do you mean?

  No, I just, Masayo started to explain.

  When I was young, I always blamed everyone. When I was in my thirties too. Even into my forties. No matter if it was my fault or someone else’s fault, I still blamed everyone else. Whether it was a lover or just a friend, when trouble arose that’s always how it was.

  But now that I’m in my fifties, I have found it easier not to accuse others when things happen, be it a difference of opinion, or a misunderstanding, or a quarrel.

  Is that so? I replied distractedly.

  ‘It is so. Even though it might seem simpler just to jump to accusations,’ Masayo said as she used a toothpick.

  Do people become kinder when they turn fifty? I asked, still in a bit of a daze.

  ‘No, no, that’s not it at all!’ Masayo raised her brows sharply.

  Then what do you mean?

  ‘If anything, the older I get, the more demanding I become!’

  I see.

  ‘And kinder towards myself.’ Masayo gave a little laugh. She looks pretty when she smiles, I thought to myself. Her smile sort of reminded me of a small animal, like a pretty white hamster, running in circles in its cage.

  No, I just, Masayo continued with her explanation.

  The thing is, there is always the chance that this person—the one you accused—might be dying.

  When I was young, I didn’t think about people dying. But when you get to be my age, people can drop dead, just like that. In an accident. From an illness. By their own hand. By someone else’s hand. Or just naturally. People die much more easily at this age than when they are young.

  They might drop dead right at the moment when you blamed them for something. They might die the very next day. Or a month later. Or smack in the middle of the following season. In any case, you never know when people of ripe age will just croak. It keeps you up at night.

  Having to worry about whether someone is healthy enough to tolerate my fierce hatred or criticism before I decide to blame them—that’s what I call getting old. Masayo gave a somewhat serious sigh. But she had a smile on her face. I would never understand her.

  Masayo wrapped up by saying, ‘That’s why, when I haven’t heard from someone for a while, the first thing that occurs to me is that they might have just keeled over.’

  Keeled over. I repeated Masayo’s phrase, in the same tone she had used.

  ‘You know?’ Masayo suppressed a chuckle as she peered into my face.

  I-I don’t think he’s dead, I replied, shrinking back in my seat.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I-I’m sure, I answered, even as my mind whirled, trying to think back to when I had last seen Takeo. I haven’t seen him yet today. I definitely saw him yesterday. It was yesterday evening. He showed no signs of dying. But people usually died without any warning, didn’t they?

  A customer came into the shop. Mr. Nakano was waiting on him, his voice loud. I crept over to the door that separated the back room from the shop. Still in my lackadaisical state, I flung open the door only to see the figure of Tadokoro jump out at me.

  Why, young lady, I haven’t seen you in a long time, Tadokoro greeted me amiably with a beaming smile.

  Ah, yes, I replied instantly. And just like that, I hurried to put on my shoes and grabbed my coat and bag as I bolted out of the shop.

  I myself didn’t even seem to know where I planned to go, but I ran off anyway. My legs felt weak. I couldn’t just drop weight like this. What will I do if he’s dead? I thought to myself as I staggered along. It appeared that I was heading in the direction of Takeo’s house, but I couldn’t be certain. Don’t be dead, I repeated over and over in my head. I was getting out of breath. My repetition of ‘Don’t be dead’ was punctuated by the occasional thought of ‘What will I do if he’s dead?’ This loop was coupled with the conviction, ‘He can’t be dead!’ But within that certainty, there was the subtlest pinprick of a notion that, if by some chance he were dead, I might just feel terribly relieved.

  The pale autumn sunlight shone on the top of my head. I felt warm, I felt chilly—I really had no idea what I was feeling—while I kept on running, where to I wasn’t sure.

  ‘Ah, Mr. Tadokoro,’ Mr. Nakano called out. Tadokoro had just come into the shop with Mr. Mao.

  Mr. Mao was a buyer from China. This was his third visit to the shop. He was always accompanied by Tadokoro.

  ‘Today I have gathered an assortment of especially high-quality ones for you,’ Mr. Nakano said, putting on a smile and clasping both hands together. I call that the hand rub, Masayo whispered in my ear.

  Tadokoro, Mr. Mao, and Mr. Nakano went into the back. Shall I serve tea? I asked. Yes, if you don’t mind. But it wasn’t Mr. Nakano who replied, it was Tadokoro.

  I moved in slow motion as I made the tea. Takeo hadn’t died. I had run into him on the street. Takeo was on his way to buy cigarettes. Been smoking a lot lately, Takeo said, averting his eyes. I would never have imagined that it was really possible to run into the very guy that things weren’t going well with in the middle of the street. But that is almost literally what happened.

  Mr. Mao was tall and thin, and he had large ears.

  ‘He seems just like someone from the Chinese underworld,’ Tadokoro had told me in a whispered aside the other day.

  I had tilted my head, The underworld? And Tadokoro had looked me right in the eyes and said, In Japan we call it the black market, young lady. The man was inscrutable to me. But in contrast to the creepiness about him, Tadokoro gave off a pleasant smell. Rather than any particular cologne, the aroma seemed to have more of a warm presence, something like fragrant tea or freshly roasted rice cakes. The scent was completely different from the impression Tadokoro himself emanated.

  That day I had called Takeo at nine in the morning. Of course he hadn’t answered. This was the seventh call. It had been a week. I’d stopped wondering what might be keeping Takeo from answering his phone. It simply registered as, Hmm, he didn’t answer again today.

  Mr. Mao used much more courteous Japanese than Mr. Nakano or I did.

  ‘You have arranged many wonderful pieces. I am extremely grateful for your efforts,’ Mr. Mao said, after attempting to sweep all five scrolls towards himself with one hand while grasping Mr. Nakano’s palm with his other hand. Right away Mr. Nakano pulled his hand back. Then he hurriedly forced a smile and said, ‘No, well, now.’

  Mr. Mao began to lay money out on the low table. He laid each 10,000-yen note flat. Hi . . . fu . . . Mr. Mao counted. Once the table was covered with 10,000-yen notes, he started from the left edge again, placing a second layer precisely on top of the first.

  Unable to find a place to set the teacups, I was idling, balancing the tray I had carried in on my knees, when Tadokoro turned to face me. How many women have fallen in love with Tadokoro? I wondered irrelevantly. It was completely beyond me how a woman could be in love with a man who doesn’t love her back. And just how were those women able to fall in love with men other than the ones who loved them?

  Following a similar logic, once I had fallen out of love, I became completely incapable of explaining why I had loved a guy in the first place.

  What was it I saw in him?

  Tadokoro had sidled up to me. Hey, Hitomi, that’s a lot of money, isn’t it? Tadokoro pointed towards the table top. As if spellbound, Mr. Nakano was watching Mr. Mao’s fingertips as he arranged the money. Mr. Mao handled the notes smoothly, as if he were the kind of person who spends his whole day laying out money.

  ‘Seventy-seven notes—have you made sure of the amount your
self?’ Mr. Mao asked, grinning.

  Uh, yes, Mr. Nakano replied, sounding awed.

  ‘That makes seven hundred and seventy thousand yen, isn’t that correct?’ Mr. Mao asked.

  ‘I’m sure that’s enough,’ Tadokoro said, as if covering for him before Mr. Nakano could open his mouth.

  Mr. Nakano folded his arms, as if he refused to be talked into following Tadokoro’s lead. But then immediately he replied feebly, That’s enough, I guess that’s enough, uh-huh, and he went on nodding his head repeatedly.

  Mr. Mao stood up. One by one, he tossed the hanging scrolls into a large carryall.

  Ah, Mr. Nakano gave a little intake of breath. Not even he would handle merchandise so roughly. Mr. Mao paid no heed; when he had cast the last of the scrolls into the bag, like a conjurer he rounded up the 10,000-yen notes on top of the table with a flourish and thrust them into Mr. Nakano’s palm.

  ‘I do hope you will please contact me if you have any more excellent deals,’ Mr. Mao said, bowing deeply. Mr. Nakano couldn’t help but bow in return. Tadokoro kept his head up.

  The next thing I knew Takeo was standing behind us. Tadokoro glanced at him calmly. Takeo scowled at Tadokoro. Just like that, Takeo came up to me and quickly took the tray I was still holding in his own hands.

  Hitomi, Masayo is calling you, Takeo said, roughly putting the teacups on the now bare table. Mr. Mao was already putting his shoes on. Tadokoro grinned as he watched Takeo.

  ‘So then, see you later, Hitomi,’ Tadokoro said, following Mr. Mao and Mr. Nakano.

  Ah, yes, I said, and this time Takeo glared at me. Why are you staring at me? I muttered, but I swallowed the words and they didn’t come out properly. Takeo glared at me for another moment. Then he suddenly broke his gaze, looking down.

  It’s been a long time, I said once the three of them had gone. Ran into you on the street two days ago, he replied, his eyes still downcast. I could hear the sound of the truck’s engine coming from the back. Takeo squinted his eyes, and his lips were pressed together firmly.

  Still, I don’t know, it seems as if it’s been a really long time, I said again. Takeo nodded briefly, with seeming reluctance. I could hear fragments of Mr. Mao’s voice. There was what sounded like the truck’s door closing loudly, and the engine soon faded away. Masayo’s voice echoed inside the shop as she welcomed a customer. Takeo still stubbornly kept his head down.