To the Namiya General Store,
Thank you for your letter. It surprised me, since I didn’t know if I’d be getting a response.
That said, I found your advice very disappointing. To be honest, you don’t even remotely understand my problem. I don’t need you to tell me that taking on the family business is the safest thing to do.
But just because it’s safe doesn’t mean it’s what’s best for me in the long run.
Contrary to your assumption, our shop is nothing special. Just a narrow storefront on a boring street. And it’s not making any of us rich. We’re lucky if we have enough to cover our expenses. Taking over that kind of a business, it’s not like I’d be set for life. Which is why, one could argue, I might as well take a long shot at some other way. As I mentioned, my mom and dad are on my side and want me to succeed. If I throw away my dreams now, I’ll only disappoint them.
There’s one other thing you’re mistaken on. I view music as a profession, not a hobby, and aim to make a living by writing and performing my own songs. You seem to think I’m doing this for fun, that making art is some passing interest of mine. Which I assume is why you addressed me as a “floundering artiste” in your response. Please allow me to correct you: I’m trying to make an honest living as a working musician, not indulge some daydream.
I’m well aware that success in music demands a special kind of talent. But who are you to say I’m not talented? Have you even heard my songs? Please don’t make assumptions. If you never give it a chance, you’ll never know.
I look forward to hearing from you.
—Floundering Musician
7
“When are you going back to Tokyo?”
It was the day after the funeral. Katsuro was eating his lunch. His father had just stepped up from the shop, bandanna wrapped around his head, to ask him this.
As of that day, Uomatsu was open for business. Early that morning, Katsuro had watched from his window as Takeo drove off for the market.
“Not sure yet,” Katsuro whispered.
“You’re fine just kicking back out here? Is your so-called road to stardom so easy that you can just hang loose at home?”
“Who says I’m kicking back? I’m taking my time to think things over.”
“What kind of things?”
“What do you care?”
“Three years ago, you were spitting fire. You can’t stop now. You need to push for it, like your life depends on it.”
“All right! I get it. You don’t need to remind me.” Katsuro dropped his chopsticks and stood up. Kanako watched them anxiously from the kitchen.
That night, Katsuro stepped out for a walk. It wasn’t hard to guess he was making his way to the general store. The night before, he had gone by and dropped his second letter in the mail slot.
He opened the wooden crate to find his envelope recycled, like the day before. Whoever was answering these letters must be checking every day.
He took the letter to the same park and sat down on the bench to read it.
Dear Floundering Musician,
Big or small, a business is a business. It’s all thanks to that fish shop that your parents saved enough to pay your way through college. If business is lagging, isn’t it your job, as the heir, to figure out a way to pick things up?
You say your parents are on your side, but any decent parent is going to side with their kids, as long as their aspirations aren’t illegal. You shouldn’t take advantage of their kindness.
I’m not telling you to give up music. It’s fine, but as a hobby.
To be honest, you don’t have the talent for anything beyond that. While I haven’t heard your songs, I can say that much for sure.
I mean, you’ve been at it three years now, with nothing to show for it, right? That’s proof you lack the talent.
Take a look at the people who’ve made it big. It didn’t take any of them long to be discovered. People with that special something won’t go unnoticed. No one has noticed you. Face it.
You don’t like being called an artiste, huh? Maybe your thinking is a little bit old-fashioned. In any case, do yourself a favor and choose the fish shop.
—Namiya General Store
Katsuro bit his lip. This response was just as vicious. Katsuro felt gored.
But this time, strangely enough, he didn’t get angry. It was actually refreshing to hear someone write so crassly.
Katsuro read the letter again. A huge sigh came out of him.
He had to admit that a part of him agreed with what it said. The words were harsh, but they pointed at the truth. If you have that special something, someone is bound to notice. Katsuro had known this all along, but he’d denied it. He consoled himself with the idea that fate hadn’t turned in his favor yet. But maybe if you had enough talent, you didn’t need to wait around for fate.
No one had ever spelled this out for him so clearly. Your chosen path is a difficult one—that was the closest anyone had ever said. After all, they didn’t want to take responsibility for their opinions. Whoever wrote this letter was a different story. They didn’t waver or falter in the slightest.
But then again…who was this person? He reexamined the letter.
They really knew how to spit things out. Most people would try to phrase things in a more roundabout way, but these letters were anything but sensitive. Katsuro was sure they couldn’t have been written by Old Man Namiya. That geezer would have taken a much gentler approach.
Whoever it was, Katsuro wanted to meet them. There were so many things a letter couldn’t show you, couldn’t say. He wanted to meet up in person and hear more.
That night, he slipped out again, as usual, with a letter in his jeans. His third letter to date.
He had done his best to think things through and came up with the following rebuttal.
To the Namiya General Store,
Thank you for the second letter.
To be honest, it came as a shock. I wasn’t expecting such a harsh critique. I had convinced myself I had at least some talent. I held on to the dream that this would be enough, and someday I would finally make it.
But your straightforward advice has helped me sort things out.
I’m thinking I need to take stock of my situation. Now that I think back on it, I may have become too attached to the idea of chasing a dream. It’s made me unable to realize when I should take a step back and stop.
With that said, and I’m embarrassed to even add this, I’m not sure I can give up on things quite yet. I want to take this music thing just a little further, if I can.
I think I’ve finally realized what my problem is.
I’ve known for ages exactly what I have to do, but I can’t bear the thought of giving up my dreams. Even now, I’m not sure how I ever could. In a way, it’s like unrequited love. I know we won’t fall in love, but I can’t seem to give up on the one that stole my heart.
These sentences aren’t doing justice to the way I feel. Which is why I want to ask you if you would be willing to meet up, just once, to discuss this face-to-face. On top of everything, I’m also curious to see what you’re like in person.
Just let me know what I need to do to meet you, and I’ll see you then and there.
—Floundering Musician
The Namiya General Store loomed desolate as ever in the light of evening. Katsuro stepped up to the shutter and popped open the flap on the mail slot. He took the letter from his jeans and slipped it in halfway but hesitated to push it through.
He thought he could sense that someone was there in the space behind the shutter.
If he was correct, then that person would eventually pull the envelope the rest of the way through. He figured he would stick around to see what happened.
His watch said it was a little past eleven.
Katsuro reached into his other pocket and pulled out his harmonica. He took a deep breath, faced the mail slot, and began to play. He wanted whoever was inside to hear him.
Ou
t of everything he’d ever written, it was the song he was most proud of. A song called “Reborn [Saisei].” He hadn’t added lyrics yet; he couldn’t find the right words. Whenever he played at shows, he always performed it on the harmonica. It was a ballad with an easy, comforting melody.
After playing through the chorus, Katsuro stopped and focused on the envelope stuck in the mail slot. Nothing had pulled on it or even tested it. There wasn’t anybody in there. The letters probably weren’t picked up till morning.
Katsuro pushed the envelope with his fingertip. It flapped through the slot and faintly slapped on the floor inside.
8
“Ka-tsu-ro, wake up!”
Someone was shaking him awake. When he opened his eyes, he saw Kanako kneeling over him; her face was close and pale.
Katsuro scowled and blinked repeatedly. “What the hell?” He groped around and found his wristwatch. It was a little after seven.
“It’s bad. Your father collapsed at the fish market.”
“What?” He sat up in bed, wide-awake now. “When?”
“Just now. We just got a call from the people there. He was transported to the hospital.”
Katsuro jumped out of bed and grabbed the jeans draped over his chair.
He got himself ready and left the house with Kanako and Emiko. They taped a sign to the shutter of the shop: DUE TO UNFORESEEN CIRCUMSTANCES, WE WILL BE CLOSED TODAY.
A taxi brought them to the hospital, where a middle-aged man from the fish market was waiting. He seemed to have met Kanako before.
“He was carrying some boxes, and next thing I know, he seemed to be in a lot of pain,” explained the man. “We called the ambulance right away…”
“I see. I’m so sorry to interrupt your work day. We appreciate you going to the trouble. We’ll take over from here.” Kanako politely sent him off with a thanks.
Takeo had already been treated, and they were asked to meet with the doctor in charge. Katsuro and Emiko went, too.
“He’s overworked, plain and simple, which is why his heart’s under a lot of strain. Any idea why? Has he been through any stressful circumstances recently?” The doctor, a dignified man with white hair and a handsome face, had a very soothing voice.
Kanako explained how he had just lost his mother. The doctor nodded sympathetically.
“That must have been hard on him, both physically and psychologically. I can’t say anything right now about the condition of his heart, but he needs to be more careful. I recommend he schedule regular screenings.”
“We’ll make sure he does,” assured Kanako.
The doctor said they could visit him, so they went immediately to his room. Takeo was lying down on a bed for ER patients. He saw them and made an unpleasant face.
“Isn’t this a bit much? What’s the big deal?” he complained in a show of bravado, but there was little fire behind it.
“I told you it was too soon to open up the shop again. You have to rest a few more days.”
Takeo scowled at Kanako and shook his head. “You think we can afford that? I’m fine. If we close for even a day, where will our customers go? There are people who depend on me for a good piece of fish.”
“But when you overdo it, it’s too much for your body.”
“That’s what I’m saying. I didn’t overdo anything. I’m fine.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dad,” said Katsuro. “If you really think we can’t afford to stay closed another day, I can help.”
All three faces turned to him, eyes colored with disbelief.
Takeo broke the silence. “What the hell are you saying?” he spat. “You can’t even clean a fish.”
“That’s not true. Remember how I used to help out every summer, up until high school?”
“That was hardly enough to prepare you to run a business.”
“Yeah, but—” Katsuro held his tongue. Takeo had raised his hand from under the sheets, holding off his son from speaking any further.
“What about your music?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking maybe I need to give it up…”
“What did you just say to me?” Takeo’s face sagged at the corners of his mouth. “No son of mine is going to run away from his problems.”
“It’s not like that. I just feel I would do more good if I took over the store.”
Takeo clicked his tongue.
“Three years ago, you talked all high and mighty, only to come back down to this. Well, listen up and let me tell you straight. I won’t let you take over the store.”
Katsuro looked at his father with disbelief.
“Takeo,” cautioned Kanako.
“Things would be different if your heart was set on selling fish. But I know it ain’t. If you take over out of pity, you won’t be able to run the shop the way you should. Mark my words. A few years down the line, you’ll regret not doing music, and you’ll start whining all over again.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Sure it’s true. I can see it now. When that day comes, you’ll give yourself all kinds of excuses: ‘Oh, my poor father fell,’ ‘I had no choice,’ ‘I had to sacrifice my art to save my family.’ You’ll take no responsibility. Everything will be someone else’s fault.”
“Takeo, you don’t need to talk like—”
“You stay outta this. What do you say, boy? If you can prove me wrong, say something.”
Katsuro pursed his lips and glared at Takeo. “Is worrying about my family such an awful thing?”
Takeo snorted at him.
“You can only say that kind of high-and-mighty bullshit when you’ve accomplished something. But what have you done with your music? Has it gotten you anything? No, it hasn’t. If you want this dream so bad that you’re willing to turn your back on your parents, we expect you to have something to show for it. You come home empty-handed and think you can take over my business? Thinking it’s just some fish shop? Don’t insult me.”
After this voluble outburst, Takeo’s face showed signs of pain. He grabbed his chest.
“Takeo!” yelled Kanako. “Emiko, get the doctor.”
“Quit worrying. It’s nothing. Hey, Katsuro, listen up.” As he lay on his back, Takeo eyed Katsuro steadily. “Neither me nor the shop is in rough enough shape to need you to come running to the rescue. Stop trying to be a hero and go back to Tokyo. Be a fighter. Give it everything you’ve got. Even a losing battle is worth fighting. Go out and make your mark. And don’t come home again until you do. Hear me?”
Katsuro stood in silence.
Takeo asked him again. “Do you understand?”
“I understand,” he said in a low voice.
“I mean it. Swear on it, man-to-man.”
Katsuro nodded deeply to show he meant it, too.
Once they were home from the hospital, Katsuro started packing immediately. Not just the things he’d brought from Tokyo, but everything in his room. It had been a while since the room had been tidied up. This felt a little like spring cleaning.
“Get rid of the desk and bed,” he told Kanako as he was taking a short break to eat some lunch downstairs. “I won’t need the bookcase, either, so you can toss that, too. I won’t be using that room anymore.”
“Mind if I use it, then?” asked Emiko, not missing a beat.
“Sure, I don’t care.”
“Whoo-hoo,” she said, clapping her hands quietly.
“Katsuro, if this is about what your father said, you know you can come home whenever you like.”
But Katsuro smiled wryly at his mother’s love. “You heard him. He said we swore on it, man-to-man.”
“I know, but—” But Kanako said no more.
Cleaning out the room took him the rest of the day. In the early evening, just before he finished, Kanako went to the hospital and brought home Takeo. Compared with that morning, Takeo’s face looked alive again.
Dinner was a pot of sukiyaki, and Kanako had splurged on some premium cuts of beef. Emiko went giddy like a littl
e kid, and Takeo was lamenting that he couldn’t have a beer. He’d been told to hold off on smoking and drinking for a few days. It was the happiest Katsuro had seen his family this side of the funeral.
With dinner over, Katsuro got ready to depart. It was back again to Tokyo. Kanako suggested he spend another night, but Takeo reproached her, saying to let him do what he wanted to do.
“All right, I’m off,” he told his parents and his sister, luggage in both hands.
“Be good,” Kanako replied. Takeo said nothing.
He took a roundabout route to the station, for one last visit to the Namiya General Store. Maybe he’d find a response to last night’s letter in the milk crate.
When he went and checked, he found an envelope waiting for him. As he slipped it into his pocket, he looked over the abandoned building. The grungy sign looked as if it wanted to tell him something.
He proceeded to the station and didn’t read the letter until he was aboard the train.
Dear Floundering Musician,
I’ve read your third letter.
While I can’t go into the details, meeting you in person is out of the question. Even if it weren’t, it wouldn’t be a good idea. Honestly, it would probably bum you out. You’d hate yourself for putting so much trust in a shmuck like me. Let’s leave it at that.
So here we are. You’re finally thinking about giving up music.
But I get the feeling this is temporary. You’ll have a go at it again. Maybe by the time you read this letter, you’ll have already changed your mind.
I hate to disappoint you, but I can’t really say if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. But there’s one thing I can say for sure.
Your efforts in music will never be in vain.
Your music will save lives. And the songs you create will absolutely live on.
Don’t ask me how I know. Just trust me. I’m positive.
Hold on to this until the end. The very, very end.
That’s all I can say.
—Namiya General Store
Katsuro scratched his neck.
What’s up with this one? he asked himself. It’s strangely polite. None of the bullying of the other letters.
The Miracles of the Namiya General Store Page 9