‘Of course I don’t believe him,’ Masayo said.
The two of us were eating tanmen in the back room. It was Masayo’s signature dish, the way she always made it. Masayo sniffed as she raised the noodles high with her chopsticks. When it’s cold out, your nose runs more than ever when you eat tanmen, she said languidly.
‘You don’t believe him?’
‘He’s lying. I mean, Maruyama definitely ran off, I’m sure of that,’ Masayo said slowly.
‘How do you know he ran off?’
‘Because I love him, that’s how,’ Masayo replied with perfect composure.
I love him, I parroted her words in a murmur.
‘Am I wrong to?’
N-no, I said, hurriedly slurping my noodles. They were hot, and I almost choked on them.
We heard the sound of the truck’s engine. It must be time for Takeo to go out. I glanced at the heavy brass lighter that he had left on top of the shelf. When the man had found out that the lighter sold for only 5,100 yen, he had complained a bit. I knew that anything could happen but . . . he had said, glaring at Mr. Nakano.
But, sir, I noticed it said Made in China on the bottom of it, Mr. Nakano said serenely after the man had finished his griping. The man had turned pale and then fallen silent.
‘Love has made me scared,’ Masayo said in a sing-song tone.
‘You only just got scared?’ I retorted.
‘Oh, Hitomi, touché!’ Masayo said, laughing.
‘To think that a young woman like you can understand how it feels to find oneself in a precarious love affair when one’s desire is almost gone!’ Masayo said, slurping her noodles. I slurped mine as well.
After I had finished the tanmen, I stood at the sink and drank a glass of water. Masayo brought the empty bowls over and handed me an apple, saying, Here you go. I bit into it while I was standing there. It was tart. That’s a Jonathan, Masayo said as she bit into one herself.
The truth was, I knew very well that Takeo worried about other people plenty.
And I could never hate him, after all.
I thought about this as I chewed the apple. The Jonathan’s tartness was bracing. Masayo and I made crunching sounds as we ate our apples to the core.
GIN
Like in those medieval European oil paintings or something like that, a fat old man would be drinking straight from the bottle—right? Just like that—come on, you know?
Sakiko tilted her head, skeptical of Mr. Nakano’s description, despite his conviction that he knew what he was talking about.
You know, the father and son painted together, their name was Peter? Pieter or something, right? In these guys’ paintings, there would be a festival or something in the village, and a guy would be swigging from a jug, his huge, hairy hand gripping it at its neck where it tapers—that’s what I mean.
Peter? Sakiko tilted her head again. Peter is probably as common a name as Taro is in Japan, she said, squinting. The area under her eyes was as plump and full as ever.
I mean, you know what I mean—it starts with Bru . . . Bru-something. Bruegel? There’s a painting with a bunch of middle-aged guys wearing codpieces or something, drinking and dancing around.
That painting—it might have been painted by Bruegel’s studio, Sakiko said, now opening her eyes wide and staring Mr. Nakano in the face. Mr. Nakano met her gaze, but seemed to stiffen briefly.
The right side of my body was being warmed by hot air spewing from a gas heater that a customer brought in to sell a few days ago—it was a strange sensation. Despite the fact that winter had arrived, it still hadn’t seemed cold until a sudden temperature drop that coincided with the new year, and now, with the only other heat coming from the Nakano shop’s ineffective air conditioning unit, there wasn’t much to be done about my freezing hands and feet.
We’ll hang on to this and use it in the shop, Mr. Nakano had said, as soon as the customer who brought in the heater had left. He sent Takeo out to buy kerosene, and then with seeming delight turned it on right away. He was like a child who has just been given a wind-up toy and insists on playing with it immediately.
Mr. Nakano squatted down to let the blast of warm air hit him in the face. Nowadays, gas heaters are different from the ones they used to make. See, the heat from the flame doesn’t burn your face! Masayo seemed equally impressed as she crouched down beside him.
You know, I saw a wine jug like that the other day. Mr. Nakano had picked up where he left off and was chatting earnestly with Sakiko. For her part, though, Sakiko was responding half-heartedly as she turned over a basket woven from akebi vines to look at the bottom.
‘That basket is pretty, isn’t it?’ I said. Sakiko nodded. It is. But it’s practically brand new.
I chuckled at the way Sakiko said, practically brand new. Ours was a strange world, in which whatever was new and neat and tidy diminished in value. Mr. Nakano stopped chatting suddenly, and was looking up at the ceiling. He stayed like that for a moment, his face turned upward, before he started to walk slowly—in the same posture, just moving his legs—over to a corner of the shop, where he fumbled for a bamboo broom that was propped up against the wall. Steadily, he returned to his original spot, and letting out a cry, he struck the ceiling with the end of the broom.
What’s the matter? Sakiko asked, her lips slightly parted. They look like flower petals, I thought to myself.
A mouse, Mr. Nakano replied. With any luck, it will be knocked out from the shock!
I doubt that’s enough to make it lose consciousness. Sakiko laughed.
With no further reference to the mouse in the ceiling, Mr. Nakano resumed the conversation about the medieval wine jug.
For some reason, I’ve suddenly decided I want it, you know?
How much is it? Sakiko asks.
A lot.
Like a hundred thousand?
It’s two hundred and fifty thousand.
That’s quite a price, Sakiko said with admiration, and she squinted again. Sakiko had various ways of squinting her eyes, and this time it made her look like a merchant. Oddly enough, the area under her eyes did not seem as full when she squinted, and her lips looked thinner than usual too.
It’s pretty steep, Mr. Nakano said.
Since I specialize in Japanese things, I don’t know if that’s what the actual market price is, Sakiko said, while the expression on her face clearly conveyed that she thought it exorbitant.
Mr. Nakano knitted his brows together. I thought it was the price of the jug that was making him frown, but it was the mouse. Dammit, it’s back! Listen, you can hear it again! Mr. Nakano said in an anguished tone.
I shifted the position of the gas heater a little, so that the hot air wouldn’t blow directly onto the right side of my body. Mr. Nakano saw me do it and scolded me. Careful not to start a fire! he said. Yes, I replied. Mr. Nakano scratched his head. Don’t use such a sad voice! he said.
I’m not particularly sad, I said.
Mr. Nakano scratched his head again. I’m sad, you know.
Why are you sad, Mr. Nakano?
Because it’s winter. It’s cold. And I have no money.
Sakiko’s legs were dangling as she sat in a chair that was for sale. She was wearing black tights, her legs long and slender.
Oh, the mouse! I said. Mr. Nakano and Sakiko turned towards the ceiling at the same time. Just kidding, I admitted. With looks of disappointment, both of them returned to the way they were. The heater made a soft whooshing sound.
Mr. Nakano remained unusually fixated on the jug.
In the midst of opening the shutter, his body bent over, he would mutter, ‘It’s really steep,’ or at the end of a conversation, I would think he was about to say something else, and he would say to himself, ‘I’d like to know what the original price was.’
It got to the point where Takeo even sai
d to me, ‘Mr. Nakano seems a little strange lately, doesn’t he?’
‘That’s not a very nice thing to say, is it?’ I said bluntly.
‘’Scuse me, Takeo said, casting his eyes downward.
I didn’t really expect you to apologize, I said, swallowing the words.
Takeo averted his gaze. He looked as though all the energy in his body was draining away. This kind of lifestyle isn’t good for your health, I thought. Maybe I’ll quit working at the Nakano shop. Recently such thoughts had occasionally crossed my mind.
Masayo arrived. Ever since Mr. Maruyama came back, Masayo has been—how should I say?—even more smartly dressed than before. Today she was wearing a purplish, folk-art style skirt that came down to her ankles, and hanging around her neck was a scarf dyed from trees and grasses. It was one that she had dyed herself.
‘Listen, Hitomi—don’t you think that Haruo has been strange lately?’ Masayo asked as soon as she sat down in the chair next to the register.
‘Strange?’ Unsure how to answer, I repeated her word vaguely. Takeo let out a weird little sound. I turned around to see him, his head still hanging, trying to stifle his laughter.
‘Strange, definitely strange,’ Masayo repeated, abruptly hoisting up the hem of her skirt that was dragging on the floor. She overlapped the edges of the tucked-up hem at her knees, the way you would fold up a furoshiki.
‘Is that really appropriate . . . ’ I started to say, but before I could finish Takeo burst into laughter, and it caught me too as I erupted into giggles.
Oh, my goodness, what is all this? Masayo asks. No, um, Takeo also . . . Mr. Nakano . . . I mumbled. What about our dear Takeo and Haruo? Masayo inquired, turning to Takeo with a tone of naïveté.
No, I, uh—why Mr. Nakano, strange lately. Takeo’s words didn’t really form an answer.
Very strange indeed—everyone in this shop, Masayo shrugged her shoulders. Takeo let out a whoop of laughter. I joined in, at the same time, but only laughed a little. I thought to myself, it’s been a really long time since I’ve seen Takeo laugh so unguardedly. For whatever reason, Masayo started laughing along with us. Come to think of it, Takeo’s shoulders seemed a little broader than when I first met him. Masayo let her hitched-up hem back down again and, still sitting, let her knees bob up and down, swinging her skirt. The parts where the purple color is darker and lighter undulated in waves and, while I was looking at this, I started to feel sleepy.
Mr. Nakano’s strange behavior was not limited to the jug.
First of all, he was going to the markets less often. And when calls for pickups came in, more often than not he declined them. And whereas before it was common for Mr. Nakano to send Takeo on his own, now he made sure to go along himself to these whittled-down pickup locations. Once back at the shop, Mr. Nakano would fall into a chair and, with a disappointed look on his face, he would grumble, There was nothing good to be had there, Hitomi.
‘I think I might know what it is,’ Masayo said one day.
‘You know what it is?’ Takeo repeats after her.
I know, I do. You see, when Haruo quit his job at the company and had just opened this shop, it was exactly the same, Masayo said in a whisper.
‘The same?’ Takeo echoed again. Come to think of it, Takeo’s voice sounded clearer than it used to.
‘Yes, it’s a sort of unfocused tension, you know?’ Masayo said, lighting a cigarette.
When afternoon came around, Mr. Nakano would go out to the bank. Not ‘the Bank’ that Takeo and I used to use as a code word for Sakiko, but the actual place, the real bank.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me if Haruo were thinking about changing his business plans. That’s what I think,’ Masayo said, her voice still a whisper.
What? Takeo’s breath caught. I still didn’t really understand what Masayo meant, and I couldn’t quite react yet.
‘So, he won’t need us?’ Takeo cried out in a low voice.
Why do you jump to such conclusions? Masayo laughed. Contrary to all appearances, our dear Takeo is a worrywart!
Sorry, Takeo apologized.
There’s nothing to apologize for, Masayo said, laughing again.
Is a habit of mine to apologize. Sorry.
‘My, my—our dear Takeo seems all grown up now!’
When Masayo said this to him, Takeo wore a momentary look of astonishment. For no logical reason, I thought back to the time when Takeo slipped off my jeans. When did that happen? It felt like ages ago. As if it were five million years earlier, long before Takeo and I were born, before human beings even existed—that many ages ago.
‘I wonder if that kid isn’t borrowing money from the bank, so that he can renovate the shop,’ Masayo said, exhaling the smoke from her cigarette deeply.
Think he’ll do it? Takeo asked.
Mmm, it’s just a guess, that’s all, Masayo replied.
A guess, I repeated Masayo’s words distractedly. I still couldn’t fully comprehend the meaning of what Masayo said. One half of my brain seemed to be plastered with images of my brief sex scene with Takeo from five million years ago. The other half was woolly with an uncomfortable warmth, like the hot air from the gas heater.
I shook my head, trying to dispel the fuzziness, but it was no good. Takeo’s naked back, and the pale blue color of my inside-out jeans merely splintered into fragments and scattered through my whole brain.
Um, I’m going to take a little break, I said as I opened the front door and went outside. As soon as there was no trace of Takeo around me, my mind suddenly cleared. Maybe I really should quit, I thought to myself for the umpteenth time. In the spot where the cat used to pee all the time, there were ice needles melting. I stepped on them, and they made a crunching sound as they easily crumbled to pieces.
‘I feel like I’ve just got to get my hands on that jug, you know?’ Mr. Nakano was talking on the phone. Yeah. Yeah. Right. Twelve thirty. Yes. The Mita Line. I’ve got it. If I have any trouble, I’ll call your cellphone. Money? I mean, I don’t have much but . . .
It seemed like he was talking to Sakiko. Every so often he was calling whomever he was talking to ‘love,’ so that’s what led me to think so.
‘Hey, have you ever taken the Mita Line before?’ Masayo asked once he was off the phone.
‘Don’t make fun of me-ee!’ he replied—illogically—in sing-song. Oh, little Momo! Masayo said as she too broke into song. ‘Don’t make fun of me-ee!’ Apparently they were waxing nostalgic about a pop song from the 1980s.
‘A mistress with talents is a good thing to have,’ Masayo said after she finished singing.
Mr. Nakano snorted. Using her connections, Sakiko was taking Mr. Nakano to a ‘swap meet’ in Tokyo, a gathering of prominent high-class Western antique dealers.
‘What is a swap meet like?’ Takeo asked.
‘Well, even though they say it’s high class, it’s basically the same as the markets we always go to,’ Mr. Nakano replied.
‘There’s an auction?’ Takeo asked.
‘Right, it’s an auction,’ Mr. Nakano said.
Takeo sometimes went along to the markets that were only for the trade, where dealers auctioned their goods. What kind of markets are they? I had asked right after I started working at the Nakano shop, when I was completely clueless.
Takeo had thought about it for a moment before replying. ‘Like a shack filled with a bunch of middle-aged guys buying and selling stuff at slashed prices—that’s what it’s like.’
Mr. Nakano would always come back from the markets with incomplete sets of plates and bowls, old mirrors, mid-century toys, and whatnot—all bought for next to nothing. Small ‘retro’ items were strong sellers at the Nakano shop.
‘So, swap meets and markets—not the same, right?’ Takeo asked.
‘Not the same.’ Possibly Mr. Nakano had grown tired of answering questi
ons, because he mimicked the way Takeo spoke.
‘How are they different?’ Undaunted, Takeo piled on another question.
You think you’re all grown up? Mr. Nakano asked in reply, as if flummoxed.
‘What?’ Although Takeo spoke in the same tone as always, what was different from before was that he wasn’t intimidated.
‘In that case, maybe you should all come along? Mr. Nakano said, turning to face Takeo and me.
‘Don’t you think that’s asking too much? When Sakiko has offered to take you to this private event?’ Masayo reproached.
‘It’ll be fine, won’t it?’ Mr. Nakano said with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Anyway, I’ve got a mistress with talents, don’t you know? he went on, biting down lightly on the base of his cigarette.
Oh, my—such a sneer on this kid! Masayo laughed.
That’s not it! Mr. Nakano pouted this time, still chewing on his cigarette. It will be a good experience for Takeo and Hitomi.
Experience? Takeo said, his mouth agape. He was back to the old Takeo. We’ll leave around eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Whoever wants the experience, don’t be late, Mr. Nakano said, adopting the tone of a teacher. Takeo was still standing there with his mouth open. I was staring at the pom-pom on the top of Mr. Nakano’s hat, without really seeing it.
The wind was strong that day. So strong that it almost blew Mr. Nakano’s pom-pom hat off his head. The color of that day’s hat was dark red.
This wind seems to be blowing through the tall buildings, Mr. Nakano shouted, and Mr. Awashima replied in a low voice, It does. Sakiko was next to Mr. Awashima, and Mr. Nakano, Takeo, and I were walking diagonally behind them.
Mr. Awashima was pale-skinned. His appearance was completely different from what I would have imagined when I heard the phrase, Western antique dealer—which for me called to mind a talented, swarthy man with well-groomed sideburns. He had said he was in his early thirties, but his hair was already thinning. He had a slight stoop and goggle eyes—he seemed like a fish swimming in the deep sea. There’s something about Mr. Awashima that makes me feel at ease, Takeo said later, on our way back to the Nakano shop after the swap meet was over. I had the same impression. But, hearing Takeo say this, Sakiko responded coolly, That’s just the mark of a good dealer. If he can get you to let your guard down, then he has won.
The Nakano Thrift Shop Page 18
