‘By the way,’ said Kohtake while enjoying her coffee, as if she’d suddenly remembered, ‘I noticed that Hirai’s bar has been closed both yesterday and today. Do you know anything about that?’
The snack bar, a sort of mini-hostess bar, that Hirai ran was just metres from the cafe.
It was just a small bar comprising a counter with six seats, but it was always busy. It opened at different times each evening, depending on Hirai’s mood, but it was open seven nights a week, all year round. Since she opened its doors, the bar had opened every night without fail. Patrons often waited outside for it to open. Some nights, as many as ten customers squeezed into the place. Only the first six customers sat on chairs; the rest would drink standing up.
The patrons weren’t only men, either. Hirai was popular among women too. Her blunt way of speaking sometimes dented the pride of patrons, but they knew there was no malice intended, and there were never hard feelings. Patrons always felt comfortable around her; she had a natural gift for being able to say anything and get away with it. She dressed in a flashy way and couldn’t care less what anyone thought about it. But she believed in good manners and etiquette. She would listen to anything anyone had to say. Though if she thought a patron was wrong, even if they were of high social status, she would have no qualms about setting them straight. Some patrons were generous with their money, but she never accepted any money except in payment for drinks. Some patrons would try to earn her favour by offering her expensive gifts, but she never accepted them, not once. There were even men who would offer her a house or an apartment, a Mercedes or a Ferrari, or diamonds or the like, but she would just say, ‘I’m not interested.’ Even Kohtake sometimes visited her bar. It was a place where you could be guaranteed to have a fun time drinking.
Kohtake had noticed that her bar, usually so full of customers, had been closed for two nights in a row, and none of the patrons knew why. She was a little concerned.
As soon as she broached the subject of Hirai, Nagare’s face turned serious.
‘What happened?’ she asked, a little startled.
‘Her sister. There was a road accident,’ he said softly.
‘Oh no!’
‘So she went home.’
‘Oh how terrible!’ She sank her gaze into the pitch-black coffee. She knew Hirai’s younger sister Kumi from when she would visit and try to get Hirai – who had broken ties with the family – to come home. For the last one or two years, Hirai had found her frequent visits such a nuisance that more often than not she avoided meeting her. Regardless, Kumi would make the visit to Tokyo almost every month. Three days ago, Kumi had visited the cafe to meet Hirai. The accident occurred on her way home.
The small car that she was driving collided head on with an oncoming truck whose driver must have dozed off. She was taken to hospital in an ambulance but did not survive the journey.
‘What horrible news.’ Kohtake left her coffee alone.
The faint steam that had been rising from it had disappeared. Nagare stood with arms folded, silently looking at his feet.
He had received an email on his phone from Hirai. She probably would have contacted Kei, but Kei didn’t own a phone. In the email, Hirai gave some details about the accident and mentioned that the bar would be closed for a while. The email had been written in a matter-of-fact tone, as if it had happened to someone else. Kei had used his phone to reply and had asked how Hirai was doing, but she got no response. The inn on the outskirts of Sendai was called Takakura, meaning ‘The Treasury’.
Sendai is a popular tourist destination, particularly famous for its gorgeous Tanabata Festival. The festival is best known for its sasakazari: a towering piece of bamboo about ten metres long, to which five giant paper balls with colourful paper streamers are attached. Other decorations from the festival – colourful paper strips, paper kimonos, and origami paper cranes – are sought after by tourists who use them for business blessings and lucky charms. The festival always takes place from 6 to 8 August, which meant that in a few days, the decoration preparation in the downtown area around Sendai Station was due to begin. Given the two million tourists who were attracted to the three-day festival, Tanabata was the busiest period for Takakura, located as it was about ten minutes by taxi from Sendai Station.
CLANG-DONG
‘Hello! Welcome,’ Nagare called out cheerfully, lifting the cafe out of its sombre mood.
On hearing the bell, Kohtake took the opportunity to get more comfortable. She reached for the coffee.
‘Hello. Welcome,’ said Kei, coming out from the back room in an apron after hearing the bell. But there was still no one.
It was taking longer than normal for someone to appear in the cafe but just as Nagare tilted his head questioningly to one side, a familiar voice rang out.
‘Nagare! Kei! Someone! I need salt! Bring me salt!’
‘Hirai, is that you?’
No one had expected her to have come back so early, even if her sister’s funeral had now taken place. Kei looked at Nagare, her eyes wide in astonishment. Nagare stood there a moment in a daze. Given that he’d just delivered the terrible news about Kumi to Kohtake, to hear Hirai’s usual brisk tone must have been a little disorientating.
Hirai may have wanted the salt for spiritual purification, but it sounded more like yelling coming from a kitchen where someone was frantically making dinner.
‘Come on!’ This time, her shout had a low, sultry edge to it.
‘OK! Just a sec.’
Nagare finally got moving. He grabbed a small bottle of cooking salt from the kitchen and shuffled hastily to the entrance. Kohtake pictured Hirai standing beyond the cafe’s entrance, dressed in her normal flashy attire. To her, Hirai’s behaviour wasn’t quite what one might expect. How could it be that her sister had just died? She and Kei exchanged glances – Kei seemed to be thinking the same thing.
‘I’m so exhausted,’ Hirai said, coming in dragging her feet.
Her walk was the same as normal, but she was dressed rather differently. Rather than wearing her usual loud clothes in red and pink, she was in mourning dress. Rather than a head full of curlers, her hair was done up in a tight bun. Anyone would agree that she looked like a different person. Dressed in her mourning black, she dropped herself down at the middle table seat and raised her right arm.
‘Sorry to be a bother, but could I have a glass of water, please?’ she asked Kei.
‘Of course,’ Kei said.
With a somewhat exaggerated sense of urgency, she scuttled off to the kitchen to find some water.
‘Phew,’ Hirai exclaimed.
She stretched out her arms and legs like she was doing a star jump. Her black handbag swung from her right arm. Nagare, still holding the bottle of salt, and Kohtake, seated at the counter, stared at her like she was behaving oddly. Kei came back with a glass of water.
‘Thank you.’ Hirai put her handbag on the table, took the glass in her hand, and to Kei’s amazement, drank it down in one gulp. She let out an exhausted sigh.
‘Another one, please,’ she said, presenting Kei with the glass. Kei took the glass and disappeared into the kitchen. Wiping perspiration from her brow, Hirai let out another sigh. Nagare stood there watching her.
‘Hirai?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘How do I put it?’
‘Put what?’
‘How do I say it? That . . .’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry for your loss . . .’
Hirai’s strange behaviour – so unlike someone in mourning – had made Nagare struggle to remember an appropriate thing to say. Kohtake was also lost for words and bowed her head.
‘You mean Kumi?’
‘Yes. Of course . . .’
‘Well it was certainly unexpected. Unlucky, I guess you’d say,’ Hirai said, shrugging her shoulders.
Kei returned with another glass of water. Worried about Hirai’s demeanour, Kei handed her the glass and also bowed her head, r
evealing her discomfort.
‘I’m sorry. Thanks.’ Hirai downed the new glass of water as well. ‘They said she got hit in the wrong place . . . so she was unlucky,’ she said.
It sounded like she was talking about something that had happened to a stranger. The crease deepened between Kohtake’s brows as she leant forward.
‘Was it today?’
‘What today?’
‘The funeral, of course,’ Kohtake replied, betraying her uneasiness with Hirai’s attitude.
‘Yeah. Look,’ Hirai said as she stood up and spun round to show her funeral attire. ‘It kind of suits me, don’t you think? Do you think it makes me look a bit subdued?’ Hirai made some model-like poses, adopting a proud face.
Her sister was dead. Unless the people in the cafe were mistaken about that, her irreverence seemed over the top.
As she became increasingly irritated at Hirai’s blasé attitude, Kohtake strengthened her words. ‘Why on earth did you come home so early . . . ?’ she asked, her face showing signs of disgust as if she was biting her tongue, trying not to say, A little disrespectful to your dead sister, don’t you think?
Hirai dropped her exaggerated pose and sat down again lazily.
She held up her hands.
‘Oh, it’s not like that. I’ve got the bar to think about too . . .’ she answered, clearly knowing what Kohtake wanted to say.
‘But still . . .’
‘Please. Let it go.’
She reached over to her black handbag and took a cigarette from inside.
‘So, are you OK?’ Nagare asked, toying with the salt bottle in his hands.
‘With what?’ Hirai was reluctant to open up. With a cigarette in her mouth, she was peering into her black handbag again. She was rummaging around for her lighter, which she seemed to be having a job finding.
Nagare pulled a lighter from his pocket and presented it to her. ‘But your parents must be very upset over the death of your sister. Shouldn’t you have stayed to be with them for a while?’
Hirai took the lighter from Nagare and lit her cigarette. ‘Well, sure . . . Normally that would be the case.’
Her cigarette glowed and burnt to a column of ash. She tapped the ash in the ashtray. The cigarette smoke rose and disappeared. Hirai watched the smoke rise.
‘But there was nowhere for me to be,’ she said, expressionless.
For a moment, what she had said did not sink in. Both Nagare and Kohtake looked at her uncomprehendingly.
Hirai saw how the two were looking at her. ‘I didn’t have a place where I could be,’ she added, and took another drag of her cigarette.
‘What do you mean?’ Kei asked with a look of concern.
In answer to Kei’s question, Hirai replied as if talking about any ordinary thing. ‘The accident happened on her way home from seeing me, right? So naturally my parents blame me for her death.’
‘How could they think that?’ Kei asked with her mouth agape.
Hirai blew a plume of smoke into the air. ‘Well they do . . . And in a way it’s true,’ she muttered dismissively. ‘She kept coming down to Tokyo, time and time again . . . And each time, I would turn her away.’
The last time, Kei had helped Hirai avoid Kumi by hiding. She now looked down with a look of regret. Hirai continued talking, taking no notice of Kei.
‘Both my parents refused to talk to me.’ Hirai’s smile faded from her face. ‘Not one word.’
Hirai had heard of Kumi’s death from the head waitress who had worked at her parents’ inn for many years. It had been years since Hirai had answered a call coming from the inn. But two days ago, early in the morning, the inn’s number flashed up on her phone. When she saw who it was, her heart skipped a beat and she answered it. The only thing she could say in response to the teary head waitress who was calling was, ‘I see,’ and she hung up. Then she picked up her handbag and headed to her family home by taxi.
The taxi driver claimed to be a former entertainer. On their journey, he gave her an unsolicited sample of his comedic act. His stories were unexpectedly funny and she rolled around in the confines of the back seat roaring with laughter. She laughed long and hard, with tears streaming down her face. Finally the taxi pulled up in front of the inn, Takakura, Hirai’s family home.
It was five hours from the city and the taxi fare was over 150,000 yen, but as she was paying in cash the driver said a nice round number was fine and drove off in high spirits.
When she got out of the taxi, she realized she was still wearing slippers. She also had curlers in her hair. Wearing only her camisole, she felt the hot morning sun hit her with its full force. When large beads of sweat began dripping down her body, she wished she had a handkerchief. She began to walk up the gravel path to her family home at the rear of the inn. Where her family lived was designed in Japanese-style and had not been altered in any way since it was built at the same time as the inn.
She passed the large-roofed gate and came to the front entrance. It had been thirteen years since she was last there, but nothing had changed. To her, it seemed a place where time stood still. She tried opening the sliding door. It was unlocked. The door rattled open and she stepped into the concrete inside. It was cold. The chill of the air was enough to send a shiver down her spine. She walked from the entrance down the hallway to the living room. The room was completely dark with no sign of life. This was quite normal. Rooms in old Japanese houses tended to be dark, but she found the darkness oppressive. The hallway was completely quiet except for the creaking of her footsteps. The family altar was in a room at the end of the hallway.
When she looked into the altar room, it was open to the veranda. There, she saw her father Yasuo’s small rounded back. He was sitting on the edge, looking out at the lush green garden.
Kumi was lying there silently. She was dressed in a white robe, and had hanging over her the pink kimono worn by the head woman of the inn. Yasuo must have just moved from her side, as his hand was still gripping the white cloth that would normally cover the face of the dead. Her mother Michiko was not there.
Hirai sat down and peered at Kumi’s face. So peaceful was it that it looked like she was merely sleeping. As Hirai gently touched her face, she whispered, Thank God. If her face had been badly cut in the accident, her body would have been laid in the coffin and wrapped up like a mummy. This is what was running through her mind as she looked at Kumi’s pretty face. The thought had been troubling her, having heard that Kumi collided head on with a truck. Her father, Yasuo, kept gazing out at the courtyard garden.
‘Father . . .’ Hirai called out in a stilted voice to Yasuo’s back.
It was to be her first conversation with her father since she left home thirteen years ago.
But Yasuo remained seated with his back to her, his only response being a sniffle. Hirai looked at Kumi’s face a while longer, then slowly rose and quietly left the room.
She went into Sendai town, where preparations for the Tanabata Festival were under way. With curlers still in her hair, she trudged around until dusk, still in her slippers and camisole. She bought something to wear to the funeral and found a hotel.
At the funeral the next day, she saw her mother Michiko putting on a brave face alongside her father, who had broken down in tears. Rather than sitting in the row of seats for the family, she sat with the rest of the mourners. Just once she made eye contact with her mother, but no words passed between them. The funeral went smoothly. Hirai offered incense, but left without speaking to anyone.
The column of ash lengthened on Hirai’s cigarette and fell silently. She watched it fall. ‘Yes, and that’s that,’ she said, stubbing out the cigarette.
Nagare’s head was bowed. Kohtake sat motionless with her cup in her hand.
Kei looked directly at Hirai with concern.
Hirai looked at these three faces and sighed. ‘I’m no good with all this serious stuff,’ she let out in exasperation.
‘Hirai . . .’ Kei began, but Hirai waved her
hand to stop her.
‘So lose the sad faces, and stop asking if I’m all right,’ she pleaded.
She could see that there was something that Kei wanted to say. So she kept talking.
‘I might not look like it, but I am really upset. But, come on, guys, I need to overcome this by putting my best foot forward, don’t I?’
She spoke as if she was trying to reassure a tearful child. She was that kind of person – inscrutable to the end. If Kei was in her shoes, she would have been crying for days. If it were Kohtake, she would have observed the mourning period, lamented the deceased, and behaved with propriety. But Hirai was neither Kei nor Kohtake.
‘I’ll mourn how I mourn. Everyone’s different,’ Hirai said, and with that she stood up and picked up her handbag.
‘So that’s how things are,’ she said, and began to walk to the door.
‘So, why visit the cafe now?’ Nagare muttered, as if to himself.
Hirai froze like a stop-motion frame.
‘Why come here rather than going directly back to yours?’ he asked bluntly, keeping his back to her. Hirai stood there silently for a while.
‘Busted.’ She sighed. She turned round and walked back to where she had been sitting.
Nagare didn’t look at her. He just carried on staring at the bottle of salt in his hands.
She returned to her seat and sat down in the chair.
‘Hirai,’ Kei said as she approached holding a letter. ‘I still have it.’
‘You didn’t throw it out?’ She recognized it instantly. She was pretty sure it was the one Kumi had written and left at the cafe three days ago. She had asked Kei to throw it out without having read any of it.
Her hand trembled as she took it: the last letter that Kumi had ever written.
‘I never imagined I would hand it to you under such circumstances,’ Kei said with her head bowed apologetically.
‘No of course not . . . Thank you,’ Hirai replied.
She pulled out a letter folded in half from the unsealed envelope.
Before the Coffee Gets Cold Page 11