“Ms. Ishino is quite a genial person, you know. Even Satoru warmed right up to her.”
Well, that’s Satoru’s job, to be nice to the customers, isn’t it? But I swallowed my words. Wouldn’t this seem to suggest that I was, in fact, feeling jealous toward Ms. Ishino? But that was not the case. I’d be damned if it was.
Sensei held his umbrella completely upright and started walking. I could sense from his gait the tacit but full expectation that I would follow after him. However, I did not, and stood rooted to the spot instead. Sensei walked a little way by himself without turning around.
“Well?” At last realizing he was alone, he turned in my direction and called out leisurely.
“Tsukiko, what’s the matter?”
No matter. I’m on my way to the hairdresser’s. I have a date tomorrow, I said, unable to help myself.
“A date? With a man?” Sensei asked with interest.
“That’s right.”
“Really?”
Sensei came back to where I was standing. He peered closely at my face.
“What sort of man is he, this man you’re going out with?”
“Does it really make a difference?”
“Yes, in fact, it does.”
Sensei held his umbrella at a slant. Drops of water trickled down the ribs along the top of the umbrella. Sensei’s shoulders got a little wet.
“Tsukiko,” Sensei spoke my name in an extremely serious voice, still staring at me.
“Wh-What is it?”
“Tsukiko,” Sensei repeated.
“Yes?”
“Let us go to the pachinko parlor.” Sensei’s tone was even more grave.
Now? I asked. Sensei nodded solemnly. Do let’s go, right this moment. If we do not go to the pachinko parlor, the world will surely fall apart, he seemed to imply.
Yes, I replied, disconcerted. Yes. Do let’s, uh, go to the pachinko parlor, then. I followed after Sensei as he went down a side street off the main shopping district.
Inside the pachinko parlor, a traditional naval march was playing. It was, however, a rather modern rendition. A bass guitar played over the soft sound of wind instruments. Sensei threaded his way between the rows of pachinko machines like he knew just where he was going. He stopped and stood in front of one machine, scrutinizing it carefully, and then moved on to the one next to it. The parlor was crowded. But I imagined it was just as crowded on rainy days as it was on windy days and on sunny days.
“Tsukiko, please choose a machine to your liking.” Sensei seemed to have decided upon which machine he was going to sit at. He took out his wallet from the pocket of his raincoat and withdrew a card. Slipping the card noiselessly into a contraption on the side of the machine, he got ¥1,000 worth of balls, and when the card was ejected, he put it away in his wallet.
“Do you come here often?” I asked. Sensei nodded, without saying a word. He seemed completely focused. Sensei carefully manipulated the handle. One ball was launched, and then more balls followed, one after another.
The first ball went in one of the slots. A number of balls flowed out into a dish. Sensei gripped the handle even more assiduously. Several of the balls went into one of the holes along the side of the board, and each time more balls would sputter into the dish.
“You’ve won so many, Sensei,” I called out from behind him, but he just shook his head, not taking his gaze off the board.
“Not quite yet.” The moment he said the words, a ball went into a hole at the center of the board and the three symbols in the middle started spinning around. The symbols on the board spun on their own. Keeping his spine completely straight, Sensei calmly continued launching balls, although now it seemed more difficult than before to get the balls to go into the openings.
“They’re not going in, are they?” I said, and Sensei nodded.
“I get nervous once this thing starts up,” he said.
Two of the symbols matched up. The third and last symbol was still spinning precariously. Just when it seemed like it was about to stop, it would suddenly start spinning wildly again.
“Does something good happen if all three match up?” I asked.
This time, Sensei looked back at me and asked, “Tsukiko, have you never played pachinko before?”
No, never. When I was in elementary school, my dad used to take me along with him, so I’ve played on those old-fashioned machines where you flick each ball. I was pretty good at those, actually.
The moment I finished speaking, the third symbol stopped spinning. This last one matched up with the first two.
“Customer number 132 has just won a ‘Lucky Chance’! Con-gratulations!” An announcement came over the loud speaker, and Sensei’s machine began flashing wildly.
Without a second glance my way, Sensei remained completely focused on his machine. Quite out of character, his posture was now somewhat rounded. He launched the balls in rapid succession, and they were swallowed up by a large blooming tulip in the center. When that happened, the dish underneath the machine began to overflow with the clinking of pachinko balls. A parlor employee brought over a large square receptacle. Sensei opened the lever at the bottom with his left hand while still gripping the handle with his right hand. The containers were deftly switched, with care taken not to allow any more balls to fall into the tulip.
The larger square receptacle was soon full of balls.
“I guess that’ll be all,” Sensei murmured. When the container was filled right to the brim, the tulip closed and the machine suddenly fell silent. Sensei straightened his back once again and released his grip on the handle.
“So many of them!” I said, and Sensei nodded, still facing forward. He heaved a great sigh.
“Tsukiko, would you like to try?” Sensei turned around to ask. “It will be like sociological research.”
Sociological research, indeed. That was so utterly Sensei. I sat down at the machine next to Sensei’s. Now, buy some balls for yourself, Sensei advised, so first I bought a card and then tentatively inserted it in the machine to get ¥500 worth.
Following Sensei’s example, I sat up straight and tried my best at launching the balls, but none went in. Five hundred yen worth of balls were gone in no time. I took out my card again and bought more balls. This time I tried maneuvering the handle at various angles. Next to me, Sensei kept calmly launching balls. The symbols in the center remained still, yet a steady stream of balls going in the holes made them emit jingling sounds. The next ¥500 worth also gone, I stopped playing. The symbols on Sensei’s machine had started spinning again.
“Will they match up again?” I asked, but Sensei shook his head.
“Most certainly not. The odds must be one in a thousand, or more.”
Just as he predicted, the symbols lined up haphazardly. Checking to see that the trickle of balls flowing out while he played was now about even with the number of balls that he was using, Sensei stood up. Picking up the full container effortlessly, he headed toward the counter. After the number of balls was counted for him, Sensei walked around the corner that was decorated with prizes.
“You’re not exchanging them for money?” I asked, and Sensei stared at me.
“Tsukiko, you seem to know a lot for someone who doesn’t play pachinko.”
Yes, well, it’s all vicarious, I replied. Sensei laughed. Nevertheless, I would have said that pachinko prizes meant chocolate, but in fact, there were all sorts of things available, from electric rice cookers to neckties. Sensei intently examined each prize. He finally settled on a desktop vacuum cleaner in a cardboard box from behind the counter. He exchanged his remaining winnings for chocolate.
Here, take the chocolate. Out in front of the parlor, Sensei held out the dozen or so chocolate bars to me.
Sensei, you keep some. I fanned out the bars like a hand of cards when playing old maid, and Sensei to
ok three. Did you play pachinko with Ms. Ishino as well? I asked, nonchalant.
What? Sensei said, tilting his head. Tsukiko, weren’t you the one who went off with some young man? he retorted.
What? This time it was I who tilted my head.
Well done, Sensei. You’re very good at pachinko, I said.
Sensei made a sour face. One mustn’t gamble—it’s no good—but I do enjoy pachinko. As he said the words, he carefully adjusted the box with the desktop vacuum cleaner under his arm.
Walking side by side, Sensei and I returned to the shopping district.
Why don’t we get a quick drink at Satoru’s?
That sounds good.
Don’t you have a date tomorrow?
That’s all right.
Are you sure?
Yes, I’m sure. We were mumbling quietly now.
It’s all right, I repeated to myself as I sidled up to Sensei.
The young leaves had grown into a thick verdure. Sensei and I walked slowly under a single umbrella. Occasionally, Sensei’s arm would touch my shoulder. Sensei held the umbrella straight up high.
“I wonder if Satoru’s place is open yet,” I mused.
Sensei replied, “If not, we can just walk a bit.”
“Yes, let’s walk then,” I said, looking up at Sensei’s umbrella.
“Onward, then,” Sensei said, echoing the decisiveness of the march that had been playing inside the pachinko parlor.
The rain had softened to a drizzle. A raindrop fell on my cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand as Sensei looked on disapprovingly.
“Tsukiko, don’t you have a handkerchief?”
“I do, but it’s too much trouble to get out.”
“Young ladies these days . . . ”
I lengthened my gait to match Sensei’s robust stride. The sky was brightening and birds had started chirping. The rain was letting up, but Sensei still gripped his umbrella tightly. As he held it aloft, the two of us walked along the shopping district, keeping a steady pace.
Spring Thunder
Takashi Kojima invited me to go on a trip with him.
“I know an inn that serves the most amazing food,” he said.
“Amazing food?” I parroted, and Kojima nodded. His expression was like an earnest schoolchild’s. When he was young, he must have looked quite adorable with a botchan haircut, I mused.
“Right about now, the ayu fish is probably in season.”
Hmmm, I replied. A classy inn with delicious cooking. That seemed like just the kind of thing Kojima would suggest.
“What about going to check it out, before the rainy season starts?”
Being with Kojima always brought to mind the word “grown-up.”
What I mean is, when Kojima was in elementary school, he was a child, of course. A suntanned kid with thin little shins. In high school, Kojima had seemed like a sprouting boy, on the verge of casting off his boyhood skin and becoming a young man. By the time he got to college, he must have been a full-fledged young man, the epitome of youth. I can just imagine. Now, having reached his thirties, Kojima was a grown-up. No doubt about it.
His behavior was commensurate with his age. The passage of time had been evenly distributed for Kojima, and both his body and mind had developed proportionately.
I, on the other hand, still might not be considered a proper grown-up. I had been very much the adult when I was in elementary school. But as I continued on through junior high and high school, on the contrary, I became less grown-up. And then as the years passed, I turned into quite a childlike person. I suppose I just wasn’t able to ally myself with time.
“What happens after the rainy season starts?” I asked.
“Well, we’d get wet,” Kojima replied succinctly.
“Not if we used umbrellas,” I said, and he laughed.
“Listen, I’m asking you to go on a trip with me, just the two of us. Did you get that?” Kojima peered into my face as he spoke.
“Ayu fish, huh?” I was well aware of the fact that Kojima was inviting me on a trip. I also knew that it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to go away with him. So then why was I trying to dodge the question?
“They catch the ayu in a nearby river. And the local vegetables are also great,” Kojima said leisurely. Even though he knew I was hedging, he didn’t seem at all concerned; rather, his manner was calm and unhurried.
Kojima went on with his explanation: “Just-picked cucumbers, lightly chopped and dressed with pickled plums. Fresh eggplant, thinly sliced, sautéed, and then drizzled with gingered soy sauce. Cabbage pickled in rice-bran paste. Everything is just like home-cooked food, but the freshness of the vegetables really comes through.
“They’re grown and harvested in a field nearby, and prepared within the same day. The miso and soy sauce, they happen to come from a local storehouse too. I think a gourmand like you, Omachi, would really appreciate it,” Kojima laughed.
I liked the sound of Kojima’s laughter. I was on the verge of saying, Why not, let’s go, but then I didn’t. Ayu fish, huh. Fresh vegetables, I muttered instead, noncommittally.
“Let me know if you decide you want to go. Then I can make a quick reservation,” he said casually as he ordered another round.
We were sitting at the counter at Bar Maeda. This was maybe the fifth time Kojima and I had gotten together like this. A small plate was piled with sunflower seeds, and Kojima was munching away. I had snatched a few seeds myself and crunched on them too. Maeda quietly set a Four Roses bourbon and soda in front of Kojima.
Whenever Kojima and I came to Bar Maeda, I always had the feeling that I didn’t belong in a place like this. With its jazz standards playing low, its counter polished to a high gleam, its spotlessly clean glasses, the faint scent of tobacco smoke, and the perfect hum of activity—everything was flawless. It made me feel ill at ease.
“These sunflower seeds are good,” I said, taking a couple more. Kojima was drinking his bourbon and soda at a leisurely pace. I took a small sip from the glass in front of me. A flawless martini.
I set down my drink with a sigh. The glass was cold, its surface ever so slightly frosted over.
“The rainy season is almost here,” Sensei said.
Right, Satoru replied. His nephew nodded too. The young guy was now a regular fixture at the bar.
Sensei turned toward him now to place his order, “Ayu fish.” The young man replied, “Yessir,” and withdrew to the back. The aroma of broiling fish soon wafted out.
“Sensei, do you like ayu?” I asked.
“I enjoy most fish, in general. Both saltwater fish and freshwater fish,” Sensei answered.
“Really? What about ayu fish, then?”
Sensei looked me in the face. Tsukiko, what is it with you and ayu? he asked, still staring at me.
Nothing in particular, I hastily replied, looking down. Sensei kept his eye on me for a bit longer, his head tilted to the side.
The young guy came out from the back carrying a plate with the ayu. It was served with a sour knotweed sauce.
“The green of the knotweed complements the fresh air during the rainy season,” Sensei murmured as he gazed at the fish.
Satoru laughed and said, Sensei, how poetic!
Sensei replied, It’s not poetic, it’s simply my impression. Using his chopsticks, he carefully broke the ayu fish into pieces and began to eat. Sensei’s manner of eating was always impeccable.
“Sensei, since you like ayu so much, why not go to a hot-spring hotel or someplace to eat it?” I asked.
Sensei raised his eyebrows. “I don’t need to go anywhere specifically to eat it,” he replied, lowering his eyebrows to their normal position. “What’s the matter, Tsukiko? You seem rather peculiar today, indeed.”
Takashi Kojima invited me on a trip, I almost blurted out. B
ut of course I didn’t. Sensei was drinking his saké at a perfectly reasonable pace. Drinking and then pausing for a spell. He would take another sip, then pause again. I, on the other hand, was draining my cup faster than usual. Pouring and drinking, drinking then pouring. I was already on my third bottle of saké.
“Tsukiko, has something happened?” Sensei asked.
Reflexively I shook my head. Nothing has happened. Nothing, I said. There’s no reason to think something has happened, is there?
“If nothing has happened, then there should be no need to deny it so vehemently.” The ayu fish was already no more than just bones. Sensei nudged the delicate skeleton with his chopsticks. It had been picked perfectly clean. The ayu was delicious, Sensei said to Satoru.
Thanks, Satoru replied. I hurried to drain my cup. Sensei looked at the empty cup in my hand with a reproachful expression.
You’ve had enough for tonight, Tsukiko, he said gently.
Please leave me alone, I replied, filling my cup with saké. I drank that down in one gulp, having now emptied the third bottle.
“One more!” I ordered another from Satoru. Saké, he shouted curtly toward the back.
Tsukiko, Sensei said as he peered at me, but I turned my face away. “Well, you can’t take your order back now, but you mustn’t drink the whole thing,” he said in an unusually stern tone. As he spoke the words, he tapped me on the shoulder.
Yes, I replied quietly. The alcohol had suddenly hit me. Sensei, could you please tap me again? I said, the words a jumble in my mouth.
Tsukiko, you are like a spoiled child tonight, he laughed, lightly tapping my shoulder several times.
That’s because I am a spoiled child. Always have been, I said, reaching out to touch the ayu bones on Sensei’s plate. The soft bones were pliant. Sensei removed his hand from my shoulder and slowly brought his cup to his lips. For a moment I leaned up against Sensei. Then I quickly moved away. Whether or not Sensei noticed me leaning against him, he kept his cup at his mouth and said not a word.
When I came to, I was in Sensei’s house.
Strange Weather in Tokyo Page 10