Moshi Moshi

by Banana Yoshimoto

  When he was invited to teach at music schools, he’d agree to do a one-off lecture or a master class, but he always said he wasn’t interested in teaching music for a living—it was playing live that he loved. And he pretty much lived doing what he loved, so he was constantly on the road with one band or another, and in recent years our family unit had gradually disintegrated to the point where we only saw each other every once in a while, when we happened to be at the house at the same time.

  Families went through different phases. Ours had reached a stage when our hearts had become a little distant while we spent time apart, and we’d been waiting for the balance to shift again and bring us back closer together, when—without our knowing—Dad had been stolen away. Mom, who’d had quite a sheltered upbringing, and me, being her daughter, had hardly a drop of worldly cunning between us, and hadn’t been able to compete.

  For his part, Dad had never been the most vivacious of people. He was prone to illness, and could be neurotic, and tended to give people the impression that it took him all his energy just to stay alive, even though he wasn’t actually that fragile.

  It might have been in the blood—specifically, my paternal grandmother’s. She’d been well bred and never wanted for money, but had led an unhappy life. Her husband, my grandfather, who died while Dad was still young, had kept a mistress, and was rarely home. I only learned this after my grandmother died.

  It gave me chills to think that I had some of this tragic blood in my veins, too. Dad looked calm and mature on the outside, but inside he acted as though he was still in college. The kind of man who’d link arms with his daughter whenever we went out together—a high-spirited, naïve, and anxious person at root. He didn’t come across that way to other people, because he looked quite sweet and delicate, and was quiet, but he took things hard, and would rather have floated through life. He had a kind of naïvete that let him think that things would turn out all right. That childlike quality was also the best thing about him.

  “But Mom,” I said, “why don’t you go and stay with one of your friends, if that’s what you want? Look, I moved out because I wanted to be on my own. You know, thinking I couldn’t depend on you forever.”

  “No one else knows about Dad, do they? You’re the only one in the world. Well, maybe except for that woman who died with him, but I doubt we could ever be friends, and she’s dead, besides. And with a friend I’d have other things to worry about. The only one I can really count on lives in San Francisco, where her husband’s been posted,” Mom said. “I guess I could go stay with her—they have a big guest suite—but I wouldn’t like to impose that much. Maybe in a while, when we’ve gotten sick of living with each other, I could go visit for a month or so, but I could stay over there for years and it would still only be an escape from everything, you know?

  “Here though—if I stay in Japan, whatever I do, it’ll lead to the start of my new life, even if I don’t quite know how. And I ought to save some money, since we don’t know what the future will bring. I can pay the rent on this place no problem, and if you’re my roommate I can feel free to leave any time. I don’t know, there’s no point worrying too much, is there? It’s just the two of us, and there isn’t enough money for luxuries. But I don’t want to have to decide everything now—it seems trivial, and like admitting that I’ve lost. Let’s worry about tomorrow when it comes.”

  I was impressed that Mom had turned into someone who could feel this way.

  While Dad had only had a faint grasp on life, Mom had always been the responsible one. Everything was always planned for, no action wasted.

  Mom was an only child, and her parents had passed away when I was young. Her childhood home, with its extensive orchards and pastures, had been sold off years ago. It was out in the middle of nowhere in Hokkaido, so it couldn’t have sold for that much, but my stay-at-home mom had inherited the money and put it all into savings. Financially speaking, it wasn’t that irresponsible of Mom to live with me for a while. It might even enable me to put some money away, too.

  The real issue, though, was that I wasn’t yet fully fledged from the nest.

  I needed somewhere of my own to come home to, and I wanted Mom to stay at the condo to give me that.

  It was within such childish bounds that I’d gotten excited about having the freedom to be on my own as much as I liked, and that was all I was really prepared for. I’d dreamed of life on my own on my own terms.

  So having to share my own space, filled with only a few of my own things, felt like coming back down to earth with a bump. Especially when I’d even vowed not to live together with a lover if I found one, but to visit each other’s places, while I was still in training, at least.

  To properly honor my own independence, I probably should have made her leave—gotten angry, shouted, whatever it took. I’m sure that’s what I would have done if I’d been her son.

  But just then, Mom was looking out at Chazawa-Dori in the drizzle with her elbows on the windowsill and her chin in her hands, like a young girl.

  To me, it was the most moving sight in the world.

  The arguments that had been going round and round in my head suddenly fell quiet.

  I understood, from seeing her there, that all she wanted was to stay here for a while. There was a dreamlike vagueness to Mom’s shape, in place of the definite outline of a grown woman. An unstable, indeterminate quality belonging to a young person, made of possibility and hope and loneliness.

  “When you say that making plans would mean admitting you’ve lost,” I said, “What do you mean—lost to what? Dad?”

  “Not Dad,” she said, “I’m talking about the lie that says you have to live a proper life, or else you’ll be ruined. I worked so hard to be respectable, because I was afraid of what would happen. But what’s happened has been, well, far worse than I could have expected.

  “I can’t believe the thing I’m most thankful for right now is that he died before getting into debt. Even though there’s almost nothing left for us after he spent most of his savings on her. But he was always kind—he would have thought it was better to die than to put us in difficult straits. A kind of misplaced innocence, don’t you think?

  “A long time ago, before you were born, we went through a rough patch. He said he wasn’t cut out for being a family man, and asked me if I’d divorce him, and maybe I should have agreed. But we talked about it, and decided to have you, and he never brought it up again. Once you were born he only said how wonderful marriage was, after all—he said that a lot.

  “I’m not saying it was my fault that he died. I just want to rebel completely against everything in society that beat it into me that life would turn out okay if I only did the right things,” said Mom.

  I could hardly argue with that. I said to myself, Okay, that was then, and this is now. Why don’t I try changing my perspective: I’m on vacation, and Mom’s just visiting. No big deal.

  I felt lighter almost immediately.

  I knew I didn’t want to reject her, so I simply accepted that there was no other option for now. We’d probably end up getting tired of each other at some point. I could work out what to do next when we got there.

  The tension that left my body just then was probably the power of my habit of Planning Too Far Ahead. Right now, Mom was here, wanting to stay. That was the only sure thing—in a couple of days, she might change her mind and want to go home after all. But here I was, getting worked up about sticking to my plan, and getting all bent out of shape trying to do it.

  “Sure, no problem,” I said. “It’s fine. I get it.”

  “Good, thanks,” said Mom, matter-of-factly.

  She probably knew me enough to know I couldn’t refuse, and had thought of the conversation as a formality, and a waste of time. I felt a little vexed at being so predictable, but let it go. It was my own fault for not having the strength to say no.

  I went to the window and sat down next to her.

  What must it be like for your life
to suddenly be a blank page, at her age? I wondered. No young children who needed her energy, no need to scramble to make ends meet. Only the dark, heavy shadow of regret that clung constantly to us both.

  In some ways, whether we lived together here or not, we could never get back to where we’d been before, whatever we did. I knew we’d have to carry this for the rest of our lives. Even when there were brighter times that made it seem like we’d been able to forget for a moment, at the bottom of it there was always that shadow. We already knew from painful experience that life was about walking forward carrying the weight of it all. Even when we cried and raged until our throats were ragged and bleeding, there was no relief. We just carried on, pretending it didn’t hurt.

  At the condo, whose very layout defined the kind of average, respectable family who lived there, our roles too clear-cut, it was difficult to speak freely.

  “Yocchan, do you think we were too square?” Mom asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, “compared to most families. Maybe because there was a musician in the house, but I think we were pretty free.”

  Dad kept late hours, and there was music playing all the time at the house. When he had friends visiting they’d party all night, or jam quietly, and I even got time off school so Mom and I could tag along to “help” when Dad toured abroad: Thailand, Shanghai, Boston and New York, Paris, Korea, and Taiwan. It wasn’t luxury travel, but there was always music. Sometimes there were other kids on the tour bus I made friends with, or had small crushes on, and it was a carefree, hippyish childhood.

  “Then maybe it was me that was square,” Mom said.

  “Well, of course, a little, but someone had to be,” I said. “The household wouldn’t have functioned otherwise. Besides,” I said, psyching myself up to admit something I’d been thinking since I was a child, “if it hadn’t been for us, I think Dad would have been dead a long time ago.”

  Mom looked at me with her eyes wide. She didn’t say it, but I clearly saw a kind of confirmation there, which said, You thought so, too?

  “Thanks,” she said instead.

  Chazawa-Dori didn’t get a lot of traffic, and the cars that did pass went by with an easy flow, like people walking along. Opposite the window was Les Liens, the bistro where I worked. Weak lamplight glowed through the old windowpanes of Mikenekosha, the coffee shop above it. In the misty rain, everything looked like it was dissolving wanly into the evening.

  Was Mom going to turn into a lunchtime regular at my workplace? I didn’t predict any of this, I thought ruefully. I won’t change a thing. Let me not go out and get her guest towels, or extra cups—she can have the whole staying-with-friends experience. I’ll let her sleep on the spare futon mattress, like any visitor. Right now, the tired bedding here—although I had sprung for feather in the comforters—would provide more comfort to Mom than the expensive Tempur mattresses back at home.

  When I got home later tonight, all wrung out, I’d surely be aggrieved to find her here. That was normal—that was how it should be. I gave myself permission to feel as exasperated as I liked.

  “Plus,” Mom said suddenly, almost as an afterthought, “I can’t stay at home because of Dad’s ghost.”

  “You’re joking,” I said.

  “I swear. If I wake up while it’s still dark he’ll be sleeping on the other side of the bed as usual, or I’ll look over and see him sitting on the sofa,” she said.

  “Mom, have you lost your mind to grief?” I said. “You never used to believe in things like that. When I scared myself watching kids’ horror shows on TV, you’d tell me they were absurd, and brush me off.”

  “Which is precisely why you should believe me when I say so. I don’t believe it either, but I was starting to feel like I was going crazy, which is why I came here. As if anyone would tumble into their daughter’s cheap lodgings unless they had to,” she said, calmly. “Shall we have a cup of tea, or something? Can you brew us a pot?”

  “What kind would you like?” I said.

  “Black tea. Sitting by this window drinking tea makes me feel like I’m in a café. Can we buy a little café table? You know that place that refurbishes antique furniture, over there? I came across it yesterday, when I was taking a walk down Inokashira-Dori, and I’ve fallen head over heels. I stayed and watched them work—all those young men in short sleeves with their muscular arms, grappling with the furniture, sanding and varnishing and making good . . . it’s really something. It makes me want to tap that,” she said.

  “That place, yeah, it’s great, isn’t it. And cheap. I agree, this place suits older stuff better, and I don’t mind if you’re buying it. We could use it as a dinner table, too. Plus you could stalk me from the window while I’m at work . . . anyway, I’ll put the kettle on,” I said, getting up. Inside I was wondering where on earth she’d picked up a phrase like tap that. In this neighborhood full of young people, Mom was probably trying to acclimatize to the language, like a person who’d just arrived in a foreign country.

  “Hey Mom, where did you put that new season Darjeeling you brought from home?”

  “Oh, in the refrigerator.”

  “Cool.”

  We could have had this exact conversation back at home, I thought, opening the fridge door. So much for me flying the nest!

  But never mind, I told myself. Here is not there, and now is not then. This was the only today we had.

  This could be the last time I get to live with Mom, I thought. For all I know . . . my stomach clenched. She might be more desperate than she appeared, and could disappear just like Dad had. Then, in an instant, I’d never be able to be near her again.

  If the alternative was for her to die back at the condo, tormented by the idea that she was seeing things, or even—not that I believed this, but hypothetically, if it was real—to keep living alongside Dad’s ghost, I’d unquestionably prefer her to be here, even if she was putting a damper on my new life.

  Hugging her knees and leaning on the cushions by the window, Mom seemed delicate and insubstantial.

  This was a new town for me, too. Being here with her, almost having fun, I felt like I was getting to start over.

  I put our tea on a tray and took it over to the window, and sat with her.

  “So,” I said.

  “What?” Mom said, surprised.

  “Tell me about Dad’s ghost. I want to know,” I said.

  “I told you everything already,” she said. “Sometimes, at home, he’s just there. And I get confused. He doesn’t speak, or make eye contact or anything; just wanders around, like he used to do. We share the space, like we’re the air we breathe, and it feels so familiar. It feels so normal, I lose track of what’s real and what’s not.”

  She sounded so matter-of-fact that I nearly got fooled into thinking, Right, okay.

  “But wait,” I said, “what if he’s still wandering around the condo on his own, now that you’re not there? Is it safe to leave him there? Won’t it . . . stop his soul from departing this earth and getting to the afterlife, or something? Don’t you feel sorry for him?”

  Mom looked down and gave a little huff, like she was trying to suppress a laugh. “You mean he’ll kill himself otherwise? Or someone else will?”

  True, I thought. The worst that could happen had already happened.

  Mom said, “Yocchan, why should we have to worry about whether Dad’s lonely, after he went and committed suicide with another woman? I mean, that must be the worst way to die, if you’re talking about reaching the afterlife. It’s not like we’d be the ones stopping him.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “But we could get the place cleansed, so he can start the journey, or something?”

  “I’m not ruling it out,” said Mom, “but right now I’m still kind of furious. I’m not an expert, but isn’t there no point doing stuff like that until you’ve truly forgiven them, from the bottom of your heart?”

  I wasn’t angry at Dad, because he was my parent. All I felt was pity at how h
e’d gone so far down that lonesome road, which had been as dark as the night just before dawn.

  No matter how warm a family we’d been, between me not being home much anymore, and Mom not being as in love with Dad as she once was, we could hardly have been enough of a draw to call him back home. Young children kept a family together like glue, but I’d grown up. We hadn’t been able to compete with that woman’s bewitching allure.

  In spite of all that, I missed him. We hadn’t even seen each other much, toward the end, but when we did, I always knew that he loved me completely.

  Obviously, though, it wasn’t so simple for Mom, since they’d been a couple. She and I were both family, but our positions were irreconcilably different. Even while he was alive, Dad had been like a hologram projected between us, showing us each a different image. Now that he was dead—or a ghost, according to Mom—this was clearer than ever.

  We’d only ever gone anywhere as a family while I was young. Once I was grown, I might do stuff with each of them separately, but we were only together as a family at his gigs. And after Mom and I found out about several women that he’d had affairs with—nothing serious, and probably just emotional—Mom lost her taste for witnessing his personal relationships up close, and used to leave and take me out to eat somewhere rather than stay for the after-party.

  If Dad had been a drinker, would he have died even earlier? Or would it have made it easier for him to keep his life in balance? I always wondered, and I’d never know. Although he couldn’t hold his liquor, Dad—always prone to feeling lonely—enjoyed going out drinking with people, and often came home from parties after dawn. To other people he might have only been a skinny keyboard player, just another interchangeable musician out of so many, but to me, he was my only Dad.

  Dad’s band was a fairly standard five-piece, but they often invited guest musicians from different genres and backgrounds to play with them to mix things up. Marimba players, mbira players, quena players, jazz musicians—even dancers. The more people were involved in a gig, the less money they each got paid—but Dad’s love for music was so steadfast, it didn’t pain him to have to take on more work because of that. Sometimes people called his playing boring, because of just how seriously he took the music, and how it always came first with him. That was another thing I loved about him.