by Hiromi Goto
Tinkle tinkle of door, the sound was soothing after my palm-sweat stress of driving on a busy highway. I stood in the doorway and breathed in deep the scent of spices foreign to my senses. I was bemused.
“Hello, you must be Sam Tonkatsu’s daughter, I can see the family resemblance, nice to meet you.” She stood firm and solid behind the cash register, wearing a white apron that covered her from neck to mid-thigh. Her head perched on top like a snow woman. She smiled hugely, and her teeth were comfortingly crooked.
“Hi,” I said, and kind of waved, for the lack of anything better to do. I was shocked. Dad came here? To this store?
“How’s your Dad doing? I haven’t seen him come around for a couple of weeks now. He must be getting low on his salted seaweed paste.”
“Dad eats salted seaweed paste?” my mouth dropped open.
“Funny guy, your Dad. Never says much and all he ever buys is salted seaweed paste. Try some pickled radish, I tell him. Try some of our specialty rāmen, I say. But no, all he ever buys is the seaweed.”
“Did my Mom come here too?” I asked, starting to doubt the things I saw with my eyes, heard with my ears, as truth. “Did she ever buy anything too?”
“Not that I know of. Didn’t even know Sam had a daughter until I saw you walk in the door. But you couldn’t be anyone else. You look like he would have looked when he was younger, only with a wig.”
“Gee, thanks a lot. That’s very descriptive.”
“Wa! ha! ha! haaa!” she laughed enormously. “That wasn’t meant as an insult, dear! He’s quite a striking man, and you’re an interesting looking girl.”
“Oh good, this gets better and better.”
“Wa! ha! ha! haaa! Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Yeah, actually. I have a list here, somewhere.” I patted my back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of foolscap.
“That’s some list,” she said, peering over my shoulder and breathing quite heavily into my hair. “Run out of the staples, huh?”
“I wouldn’t know. My Obāchan gave me the list, and I know what the words mean, but I have no idea what they are.”
“Isn’t that some sort of aphasia? Were you in an accident or something? Maybe it’s personal, huh. Tell me if I’m being too pushy.”
“Pardon?” There were too many things swirling in my head.
“Never mind, I’ll help you out.”
“By the way,” something occurred to me. “The tonkatsu in tonkatsu sauce?”
“Yes?”
“Is that the same tonkatsu like my name?”
“You mean you don’t know?” She was amazed.
“No, I guess I don’t.” I felt my face glow warmer, but I had to know.
“Maybe you should ask your Dad,” she said, shooting price stickers on the bottom of a few cans, glancing up at my face between every tha-chunk. “I’m not sure of the origins and such. It could have a totally different character spelling. Or it could be a nickname that turned into a real name.”
“I don’t know if he remembers. Please tell me. I want to know now.” I was so close to a different understanding, I could almost taste it.
“Well, the only tonkatsu I’m familiar with is a food.”
“Oh boy,” I muttered, I don’t know if I can stand another shock.
“It’s a type of breaded deep-fried pork cutlet.”
“Ohmygod.”
“I think it’s very unique and interesting. Maybe your father’s family was in the food or restaurant business. Who knows, maybe his family invented them!” she expanded, warming to the subject.
“I can’t stand it.”
“There’s nothing nicer than a tonkatsu dinner on a cold winter evening. It fills you up and everyone eats them lickety-split. Everyone loves tonkatsu. Don’t tell me you’ve never had one.”
“I’ve never had one.”
“Well!” she said, outraged, “well, it just won’t do!” She bustled to the meager book and magazine rack and flipped through a stack. Chose a thin, colour photo recipe book of Japanese food and smacked it against her thigh. Dust flew and made me sneeze twice.
“Take this. On the house. You learn how to make tonkatsu and you eat them up. Make your Obāchan proud of you.”
“Thanks!” I flipped through the pages, the photographs making my mouth water for things I’d never tasted.
“Put that down for now,” she said. “I’ll show you what you’ve got on that shopping list of yours.”
I tagged after her, pushing a shopping cart. Pausing in front of the small produce section, and pointing to certain vegetables, she said the words aloud.
“Daikon.” Big white radish thing as long as my forearm.
“Hakusai.” Leafy frilly cabbage thing I’ve seen in Safeway.
“Shōga.” Fresh root of ginger, translation not literal.
“Satoimo.” Little fur covered balls, root vegetable, no tuber.
“Don’t worry, once you eat what they are, you won’t forget them,” she swept through the aisles, dropping items into the shopping cart.
“Mirin, nori, miso. . . . The recipe book should help. Is your mom white?”
“No, she just doesn’t make Japanese food.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. Eating’s a part of being after all. How many pound of rice do you want?”
“Oh, just a couple for now, I guess.”
“They only come in twenty-five or fifty pound bags.”
“Oh,” I said blushing, embarrassed of my ignorance. “The twenty-five pound bag, then. What was it you said my dad bought all the time?”
“Salted seaweed paste. Excellent on hot rice.”
“I’ll have some of that too.”
“Okay. I think that about covers your list.” She started ringing it through the till. I was overwhelmed. The strange but familiar food. Dad and his seaweed. Our name.
“That’ll be $187.49.”
“Good god!”
“It gets pricey. Most of it’s imported you know. Can’t be helped. Did you bring enough money?”
“I was going to treat myself to a movie and maybe a new pair of jeans, but I guess that’s out.”
“You can put some stuff back if you want,” she raised her heavy eyebrows. “I don’t mind ringing it through the till again, we’re not so busy.”
“Nah, it’s all right. I should go home before it gets dark, anyway.”
“Here’s your change. Let me help you out to your car.” She swung the sack of rice over one shoulder and clutched a box beneath her other arm. The door tinkle tinkled. I popped open the trunk and set my box inside. As the woman put down the rice, I asked, “What’s your name anyway?”
“Sushi.”
Nothing could surprise me now. I stuck out my hand.
“Thanks for all your help, Sushi.”
She shook my hand briskly and rattled my head in the process. “Tell me how the tonkatsu works out.”
NAOE
Funny how I hated the wind so much when I was sitting still. I guess it is an easy thing to read what you will when you can see from only one side of your face. But a body can never be objective. There’s always too much at stake. Easy now, to admire the wind, sitting inside a warm cab of a truck, beer in the belly, and a cigarette between my lips! I can almost hear the snow hissing across the icy highway. Snaking, swirling, it almost makes a body dizzy. Mesmerize.
“Tengu!”
“Huh—what?”
“You almost went into the ditch!”
“Oh, sorry.” Rubs his knuckles across his eyes. “I guess I shouldn’t have had that beer. I hope I didn’t scare you.”
“I think I should drive.”
“You sure you know how to drive a stick?” He glances at me, one eyebrow higher than the other.
“Of course. Don’t worry,” I say, patting his shoulder. “Just leave the driving to me and you can get some sleep.”
“If you’re sure. I’m really beat.” Tengu brakes slowly, slowly, shifting down
with his hazards flashing for good measure. Not that anyone could see them in this whirlwind of snow. Without having crushed us already.
“Where are we going for now?” I ask. Not tied to destination. Only a grand departure.
“I don’t know,” he says, rubbing his chin. We are stopped and the wind is so strong, it rocks the truck from side to side. “Just go forwards, for now.” He opens his door to get out and the blast of ice is so fast so cold, my nostrils crackle and the inside of the windshield freezes with a clang. I slide over to sit behind the wheel and pull the seat up as far as it will go. Tengu slams into where I had been sitting. Rubs his hands.
“Forwards it is,” I say, and shift into first. “That’s easy enough.”
“Yeah, good night.” And he is snoring so quickly, at first I think he is joking.
So thick with snow with ice, I can’t hear the clamour of stars. Their voices are dimmed and scattered. Only this thickness of cold, the heap of clouds on top. So dark and muffled, I can’t even see the lights of farm houses. There must be some out there. But straight ahead, I see an orange glow reflecting off the clouds. A hovering light above a city. Why, it must be Calgary! This must be the Calgary that everyone goes to. I suppose I must have been there once, getting off the airplane, but not long enough to remember. Calgary bathed in dull orange pallor, it’s not a healthy complexion. Or, perhaps, a thousand thousand fishing boats floating on a snowy sea. Now that is a sweeter image.
I wonder if Tengu would mind if we stopped in Calgary. He said to go forward, but didn’t say anything about having a little rest. Maybe I could eat some tonkatsu. No, I suppose it is too late for a good restaurant to be open. Except for a Smitty’s or something, I don’t know. And there’s nothing there that I haven’t been eating for the last twenty years! No offense to you, Keiko, but my tongue quivers for food of substance. The substance of memory. What is this MacLeod Trail? Lights after lights and still busy in the earliest hours of the morning. Such an obscenely sprawling road and it goes on for who knows how long? This MacLeod that the road was named after must have been a hefty garrulous man for the road to turn out so. Mattaku! Wait! I scent, a wonderful scent. Where is it coming from? I know! It must be Chinatown. For the people who dare to be hungry in the middle of the night. The starving hours before dawn. There must be one door that is open, for this scent to linger. Of course I know the food is not the same, but there is a compatibility of flavour, a simple nose tongue connection. Now if I can only make my way there. Well, I don’t need a map. I’ll just roll down my window and let the flavours of Chinatown beckon me. This roof of orange clouds above the city, at least it’s good for something. At least it keeps the smells from seeping upward into space. Ahhhh, there. Yes, I can almost taste. Drive on, old woman, it is up ahead, drive on and this MacLeod Trail will end, I’m certain! Tengu sleeps like a baby, and such satisfied snoring! He must be tired, but I am not. No need for the elderly to sleep, they’ve spent so many years practicing at it, they can slumber wide awake at will. Or be wide awake when sleeping. It becomes one and the same and whispered stories are seldom ever missed. No, there is nothing in my will that would interest anybody, if I ever had written one anyway! Ara! What is that ahead? So many police cars and lights all red and swirling. It must be an accident. Ara-maaa, I hope no one has been injured. But why must we all stop?
Tap tap tap.
What! Tapping against the window with his flashlight so rude!
“Roll down your window, ma’am!” he yells against the icy pane of glass.
Mattaku! What is it now I wonder. When my belly is squeezing with hunger. I roll the window down a few centimetres to humour the shouting boy.
“Checkstop, ma’am. Have you been drinking this evening?”
“Have you no manners? Shining your flashlight in people’s faces and we can’t even see yours let alone your badge and calling people ma’am and not even knowing if it’s agreeable with them!”
“. . . .”
“Have you nothing to say? I saw a flashlight somewhere, ah here it is and there you go, how do you like that? Not so pleasant to have light glaring in your face, now is it?”
“Sorry, miss, but I’ll have to ask you to get out of your truck.”
“Why, when I haven’t done a thing and you so rude and smacking your flashlight against the window! Shining it in a body’s eyes so there’s nothing to see but spots!”
“I must insist. I wouldn’t want to force you out.”
“Mattaku! I would like to see you try. Never mind! Never mind! Don’t get so red in the face. You’ll burst something in your head well before your time. See, I’m out. Now what do you want before I catch a cold in this blizzard!”
“Walk on this line,” he says, standing so close to me, I must look up to see his face.
“What?! Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Just do it, or we’ll have to take you downtown for resisting an officer.” He is smacking his flashlight against the side of his leg. We are not amused.
“You haven’t even begun to see resistance, why—”
“Purple!”
“Ara, Tengu? Hard to sleep in all this fuss and lights. Sorry we had to wake you up when you were so tired. I’m having some trouble communicating with this young man, you just go back to sleep and I’ll be back before you can say chi chin pui pui!”
“Purple, I think you should just walk along the white line so we can get going again.” Tengu is worried and he is raising and lowering his eyebrows quite madly.
“I will not! This person has been nothing but rude, no need to listen to a body just because he wears a silly uniform.”
“Murasaki, kono hito no yū koto kikanai to taihen na koto ni naru yo. Ne? Tanomu kara,” Tengu hisses, smiling all the while.
“Well, if you say so. But I still think he needs a good spanking.” “What did you say just now, to the woman?” the young officer asks, his mustache covering his childish lips.
“I told her the importance of obeying the law in a country not of her birth, officer.”
“Yes, of course. These people should always remember that if they don’t want any trouble. Go on, walk that line.”
Chikishō! As if I’ll walk a line for an unthinking man like you. I sweep my toe along the line and snap my elbows into my sides, my legs straight and toes pointed, my head a fulcrum, a point on a radius. Fling, leap my body into a side aerial. Graceful and weightless, I spin faster and faster, until my body’s a blur and there is no ground, no sky. Only the white face of the officer spinning round and round like the moon. My legs a V but spinning so fast, I’m just a whirling circle. My elbows still tucked close into my sides, I swirl with speed, with grace. A huge gust of wind blows outward, upward, and all of the officers’ hats fly up into the night sky. Old newspapers, discarded toques, mittens are gliding in the air. I land lightly, then step one foot out, toes gracefully pointed. Take a little bow. The officers’ hats fall gently from the sky to land on their heads again and my young policeman has fainted, his eyes swirling. There is a light applause from the other officers, bedazzled with my show. “World class gymnast,” they murmur and tip their hats to me. Like cowboys. Like Englishmen. Something Western, I’m certain. I just hop into the truck, snap Tengu’s open mouth shut, and rev up the engine. Throw Western kisses as I drive away. “You play a dangerous game, Purple. I was scared for you back there.”
“Tengu, I have been sitting safe for so long— if I don’t move against that grain, I will certainly be stuck there forever. Besides, I didn’t like that young man. He had the look of a racist.”
“How can you say something like that!” He is shocked.
“I don’t know, I just got that feeling. It’s a feeling that rarely lies. He had the kind of look that doesn’t have any room for understanding or compassion or sympathy. Or love. That almost hidden tiny little sneer in the corner of the lip. Like he thinks he knows everything there is to know about you and doesn’t like, will never like, what he sees. I guess that�
��s what I mean about looking like a racist. I am not saying I’ve never been guilty myself. I’m not immune. It’s harder to notice it on your own face. You have work extra hard to if you ever want to catch yourself.”
“I guess, I know what you mean, maybe. But still, you ought to be careful you don’t generalize. Be careful with the cops from now on, okay? And no more magic tricks! People will remember you. Unless you want to be remembered. But the way you were walking alone on the highway back there, it looked to me you were walking away from remembering.” Tengu is looking stern, and so very endearing.
“As if it is ever possible. I found out a long time ago you can never discard the past. It stays with you always. Let people remember me. There are worse things to remember than an old woman who can still play a few tricks.”
“How did you do those flying cartwheel things anyway?”
“I’ll never tell! Come, we’re going to Chinatown for a feast. I’m paying.”
“What’s the celebration?” he smiles.
“I’ll think of something.”
“This is fantastic!” Tengu says, his mouth full of lobster meat, ginger pungent cream dripping from his lips. “I’ve never had lobster this good before.” He licks his fingers from his pinkie to his thumb. It’s good to see a body enjoy his food so much. I coax the meat from the pincers out with my chopsticks. What does “chopsticks” mean anyway? Who made it up? The world is cluttered and heaping with things untold and forgotten. But eat now, now is a time to eat. There is a time for words, but there is a time for food also. What can be more basic than that?