by Ryu Murakami
“It’s a long story. Can you introduce me to somebody there?”
“Easy enough, but what are you up to, anyway? You’re going to get Takahashi’s autograph and use it to seduce some young fan of his, right? It’s going to cost you.”
“I wish it were something simple and innocent like that.”
“You had those rare Italian cigarettes once, remember? That’s what I want in return.”
“Wait. You can’t buy those cigarettes. They don’t even have them in duty-free shops overseas!”
“You know I’m a nonfilter freak. This anti-smoking campaign these days—it’s all a plot by big pharma and the ad agencies to—”
“A pianist gave me those cigarettes when I was on location in Italy. He only gave me one pack!”
“They were wonderful cigarettes.”
“I could pay you instead. Say, twenty thousand yen?”
“I need the smokes.”
What right have I to refuse?
Instead of having lunch during a break in the dubbing, I scurry over to the Italian Government Tourist Bureau, to meet a PR person named Carla. She helped me out once when I was making a documentary about the history of popular song.
“This is going to sound kind of silly, but I wanted to ask your advice about a certain brand of cigarettes.”
Carla is the daughter of a family so outrageously wealthy they’ve got their own soccer team. Her father arranged for her position here, in order to evacuate her from the land of political kidnappings to the safest city in the world.
“This is quite a coincidence. I was going to call you.”
The smell of her perfume is overwhelming. No doubt her body odor is too. I’ve only known two Italian women. Both had soft skin. And their vaginas were remarkably similar to the Japanese variety. Which is completely beside the point right now.
“The cigarettes that pianist, Massimo, smoked. How can I get some of those?”
“What were they called?”
“I don’t remember. I remember the package, though. It wasn’t paper, it was one of those flat little tins, like cigarillos come in, and the logo was an elephant with whiskers—or was it a water buffalo?”
“I’ve never seen any cigarettes like that.”
“I need to get some.”
“You say Massimo smoked them?”
“Yes.”
“Then they may have been custom made. Massimo’s from Perugia, which is a fairly isolated district. And, come to think of it, they do turn out some excellent tobacco products there. I could send a telex first thing in the morning.”
“Do you think you can find them?”
“In Italy, nothing is impossible for me. Except perhaps infiltrating the Red Brigade.” Carla laughs, making her enormous breasts surge and jiggle. She’s about a head taller than me, and I once braved a slow dance with her and nearly suffocated.
“By the way, I have a favor to ask of you too! Do you remember the time we went to eat a special salmon roe dish at that place in Tsukiji?”
“Behind the Dentsu head office?”
“That’s the one. They gave us some little dried fish as an hors d’oeuvre. I need some of those for my next party.”
“Ah, but it’s not as if you can buy those fish just anywhere. I seem to recall that they were from some remote region on the Japan Sea coast, or—”
“I was going to call you. I simply must have those fish. I’ll take care of the cigarettes for you.”
What right have I to refuse, or haggle over, any conditions?
The editing continues. Everyone involved has bloodshot eyes, after working till the wee hours for several consecutive nights. On the monitor is a giant garbage dump in Calcutta. Dogs, cats, pigs, water buffaloes, birds, and human beings are poking around in it. Two women holding babies to their breasts are squabbling over a half-rotten melon rind. “How can anyone live like that?” the recording engineer mutters. “I wonder if they even know there’s anything better,” the technician says, as he fiddles with the control panel. I direct the dubbing, making minor adjustments to the script as we go, but the only thing in my head is a tiny dried fish.
“Kat-chan. It’s me.”
Kat-chan used to work for Dentsu and was in charge of the Sumitomo pavilion at the Expo in Osaka. He quit six years ago and opened a restaurant in Tsukiji, right behind the Dentsu Building. No one’s sure why he gave up his job as an event planner. Some say he was forced out for alleged sexual harassment of male underlings. He claims it’s simply because he loves to cook, and I’ll say this much: he certainly comes up with some fantastic dishes. His ark shell and kiwi salad, for example, is out of this world.
“Well! Hello, stranger!”
“I have a favor to ask.”
“Not on the telephone, you don’t. You’ll have to come here and show your face.”
“Last year, in spring, you had some really delicious little dried fish, remember? Tiny little silvery things.”
“Sure. From Wakasa.”
“Right. Do you have any now?”
“Nope.”
“No?”
“There’s only one old man who catches and prepares those fish—he’s a legend in Wakasa—and they’re almost impossible to lay your hands on. They were incredible, weren’t they? You can imagine the demand.”
“Shit. Damn.”
“You’ve got to have them?”
“Yeah.”
“I might be able to get you some.”
“Really?”
“But listen. I want something from you in return.”
“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute. I don’t, I’m not—”
“It isn’t your sweet ass I want, dummy. Do you still see Ken-bo, from the Arikawa agency?”
“I’m not involved with music programs any more.”
“So you don’t carry much weight with the agencies now?”
“What, a piddling little agency like Arikawa? No problem. What do you need?”
“Find Ken-bo and tell him to give me back my racket. I lent him my Dunlop Max 2000, and he refuses to return it. I’m leaving for the Izu Highlands the day after tomorrow, and I want to take that racket with me.”
Too many material goods. Cigarettes from Perugia, minnows from Wakasa, Dunlop rackets—Japan is on the road to ruin. Look at Calcutta. A beggar woman, both arms covered with sores from some skin disease, stands in the blazing sun for ten hours to get her hands on one stale biscuit.
I duck out of the cutting room and dash upstairs to Studio 3, on the fourth floor. Ken-bo is a very gay young manager for the Arikawa Talent Agency. He comes to rehearsals here to brown-nose the producers even when his singers aren’t on a show.
“I knew I’d find you here,” I growl. “Haven’t changed a bit, have you.”
“My! Back in the real world again, are we?”
“Listen, you little toad, I’ve got a message for you. Kat-chan in Tsukiji wants his racket back. Tonight.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, I don’t believe this.”
“I don’t care what you believe, just give it back. I’m in a big mess if you don’t.”
“Hold on, now. I’ve said this time and again: he gave me that racket. Sheesh.”
“And I’m telling you to give it back. You want me to spell it out for you?”
“What are you getting so excited about? What happened?”
“Look, you know I’m a close friend of the producer on this show, right? You see what I’m getting at. Don’t make me say it.”
“Good grief. Oh, all right, but I’d like you to do something for me in return.”
“Don’t push your luck, toad.”
“Fine. Do as you please, then. We haven’t any decent singers right now anyway. I don’t see how you could make things much worse.”
“Hey.”
“And you can explain to Kat-chan that when he offers someone a gift, he shouldn’t expect to get it back.”
“Wait. Okay. All right. What do you want?”
“There’s a little club in Ginza called Bizarre. You know it?”
“I know it. How much do you owe?”
“No, no, it’s not like that. Heavens. There’s a hostess there named Saki.”
“Since when are you into women?”
“Everyone has to put on a front in this business. You know as well as—”
“All right, all right. So?”
“So I want you to tell her I can’t make it tomorrow.”
“Done.”
“Not by telephone, though. That wouldn’t do.”
“No?”
“Go to her club. Take, let’s see, about a seven-thousand-yen bouquet of roses, and whisper in her ear: ‘Ken-bo sent me. He won’t be able to make it tomorrow, and he sends these roses by way of apology.’”
Is it ever going to end? What’s this hostess, Saki, going to ask for? And what was it I was after in the first place?
I buy the roses from a street stall. It’s late at night, so it ends up costing me twenty thousand for a decent-size bouquet. I’ve suspended dubbing operations for an hour. It’s raining in Ginza. The neon lights are hazy and the smell of scorched rice cakes hangs in the air. I haven’t had anything to eat since the bowl of noodles I inhaled for lunch. I’m lightheaded and dizzy, and my eyes hurt from the editing work. I feel like the Calcutta beggar. I’m meatier than him, but I too am holding out my hand, dragging myself through the streets in desperation. When the beggar fails to get any money or food, he merely retracts his hand. He, at least, has a little dignity.
“Ken-bo’s afraid of me,” says the hostess Saki. “As you can see, I’m pretty stunning, and when beautiful women get angry, it scares people. Ugly women get mad and it’s just comical, right? Tell him to stop being such a chicken and call me.”
I present the bouquet to her, eat the tiny plate of young taro tubers, and drink a glass of Chivas and water; and just as the fire is spreading through my belly I hear this:
“Yoshihiko! How can you say such a thing?”
Where have I heard that name before?
“Did someone just say ‘Yoshihiko’?”
Saki has her face buried in the roses.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Takahashi Yoshihiko? The guy on the Carp?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s here?”
“Right over there, behind you.”
“What? Does he come here a lot?”
“Once in a while, when he’s in Tokyo. The girls love him. He never drinks too much, never gets vulgar or anything.”
“Introduce me to him. Please.”
“Oh, you’re a fan?”
“I can give you some Italian cigarettes, or some little fish from Wakasa, or a tennis racket, anything you want, just please introduce me to him.”
“He’s always happy to meet his fans. They’re important to him.”
I stand up holding my hand over my throbbing chest and follow her across the room.
Takahashi Yoshihiko is God.
I introduce myself, handing him a business card, and tell him a friend of mine is a tremendous fan of his and that I know what an imposition it is and apologize for asking but would he mind speaking to her on the telephone? He smiles and cheerfully agrees. Unconditionally, yet.
“Kiyomi, you know who that was, don’t you? That was Takahashi Yoshihiko. Spring training is starting soon, so as far as meeting him in person goes, I’m afraid it’s a bit difficult, but... Hello? You still there?”
“Just a minute, my heart is still pounding. I thought I was going to faint!”
“Kiyomi, you don’t know what I’ve been through... I’ve... I’ve been...”
Tears well up in my eyes.
“I can imagine. I thought you knew I was only joking. Thank you, though, really.”
“Joking?”
“Listen, I was so nervous I could hardly say anything at all. Will you tell him to win the stolen-base crown this year? Would you tell him that for me?”
“Sure, but... You were only joking?”
“About introducing me, yes. But don’t worry. I’ll testify for you.”
Takahashi is sitting at a table with some other ballplayers and a bevy of hostesses, talking and laughing, just as he was before I interrupted him.
About a month later, after my nemesis has withdrawn her suit and just as my divorce case is about to begin, I receive a package of muscovado sugar from Okinawa. The sender is Mr. Takahashi Yoshihiko. Kiyomi and I have decided to go to a Carp game when the season begins. I can already hear us cheering in unison: “Run, Takahashi!”
Lullaby
I’m shocked when they announce his name on television. By the time he starts talking my forehead is damp with sweat, and to keep Toru from noticing anything I slip into the loo. Toru is spreading marmalade on another piece of bread, and I hear him say, “Guys like this, just looking at ’em makes me want to puke.” My face in the mirror over the toilet reminds me of when I was a little girl and my parents discovered some lie I’d been trying hard to cover up. I touch the cold drops of sweat that are rolling down from my temples to my cheeks, and they’re like the last traces of something precious that’s melted away inside me. On TV, the musician is talking about his family.
Well, the thing is, each of us is completely independent. It’s funny, but most people don’t believe me when I tell them I’m married. They assume I’m a bachelor. And my wife has the same sort of thing happen to her. She’s taking some time off right now because of the kids, but she’s always worked, and people have always taken her for a single career woman. She tells me she’s had old friends come up to her at class reunions and say, “Isn’t it about time you found a husband?” We put our first son in day care almost as soon as he was born, and the result is that he’s even tougher and more independent than his parents. He’s in, what, second grade now, I guess. Usually first sons have this reputation of being timid and namby-pamby, right? He’s not like that at all. He’s almost too much not like that. His grandparents say he’s as self-reliant as an orphan...
I just wish he’d hurry up and get off the screen. The faucet is still running in the kitchenette, where I was doing dishes, and since I don’t need to pee or poop and feel stupid just standing there in the loo, I come back out but don’t look at Toru, who’s now saying, “What a creep. Creeps like this, they go around banging all kinds of women, then brag about how great their family life is.” Toru’s a year younger than me. He’s loved bread since he was a little kid, but his family was so poor they didn’t even have a toaster, so he got into the sad habit of eating marmalade on untoasted bread.
Personally, I don’t see any need for a family to be always on top of one another, but I do think it’s important to stay close in a physical way. That’s why I always make sure we get to take vacations together... The screen shows photos of him and his family frolicking on some South Sea island, then romping in the snow at some foreign ski resort, and so on.
I’m trying not to look at the TV, shifting my gaze around, looking at things that don’t have anything to do with anything, until my head starts spinning. I turn off the water and sit down facing away from the television. The voice behind me sends a chill up and down my spine, and I feel like screaming. Not with my mouth, but with every pore on my body—a high-pitched scream, like those Incan flutes I heard one time. Why did things have to turn out this way? He’s having fun with his family on some beautiful beach or mountaintop, and I’m here on the tatami next to Toru, who’s sitting with his chin on one knee. Watching him coat that soft white piece of bread with marmalade, then roll it up like a jelly doughnut and cram it in, I start to hate him so much I could kill him.
&
nbsp; The next thing I know I’m crying. Toru just goggles at me for a minute, then slides over next to me, still hugging his knee, and says, “What are you crying about?” He touches my shoulder with a hand covered in bread crumbs. “What’s wrong? Did I do something to hurt your feelings? How am I supposed to know why you’re crying if you don’t say anything? What I said about last night was the truth, honest. Look, I’m going to quit the job in Kabukicho anyway. A friend of mine from high school—I told you, right?—he’s got a little company, what do they call it, direct mail? Anyway, it’s a desk job. I’ll be sitting at a desk all day. It’s gonna be way better.”
Toru is shaking my shoulder and practically shouting in my ear, which means I can’t hear the TV, and when I think about how I’ll never see that man again, never in my life, I start to really lose it. I remember how it felt when he stopped calling me, how my body began to feel like leftover cake, and how scary that was, and now I’m crying even harder, the way a newborn baby cries. When I turn to face Toru and hold out my arms, he thinks I want a hug, so he smiles a little and moves his face closer to mine, but I just dig my nails into the pale skin of his neck and try to strangle him. He wasn’t expecting that. He tries to say something but it comes out all gargly, and his face turns bright red, and finally he shouts, “LET GO!” and hits me on the side of the head, and when I topple over and scrape my brow on the yucky-smelling tatami, I notice that the TV show’s gone to a commercial.
“What are you, an idiot?”
“But he’s a very important person in my life.”
“He’s famous, right?”
“Nowadays.”
“What about when you were seeing him?”
“He wasn’t as famous then, but he was a studio musician and played synthesizer on a lot of big records and had tons of money. Like, you know that little Italian restaurant across from the Roi Building in Roppongi? Where lots of photographers and celebrities go?”
“No, but what about it? He took you there?”
“Yeah. And he took me on weekend trips to Hayama and Hakone, places like that, too.”
“How long did you date him?”
“About half a year.”
“But it wasn’t really what you’d call dating, right?”
