Moshi Moshi

by Banana Yoshimoto

  “I know what you mean,” I said. Mom nodded, and went to wash her face.

  I didn’t mention Shintani-kun.

  Mom could be surprisingly oblivious to that kind of thing. When I was a student, there was one time I had a fairly long-term boyfriend, but until we ran into her on a date in Jiyugaoka, she hadn’t had a clue. Even then, she just kind of smirked knowingly about it, and didn’t quiz me about him or tell Dad.

  I was of two minds about telling Mom about that woman.

  The other me inside me wanted to go to her and cry, and ask her what to do, tell her everything and make a big fuss, and run away and go to sleep.

  But the present me—the me who had strange dreams, the grown-up me who had a job and the basics of a life—there was a spark inside me that said, Keep quiet for now. Not telling her isn’t a betrayal. It said, Wait until you know more. Leave her in peace for even just a second longer . . .

  WHEN I WOKE UP the next day, I was surprised by the sight of Mom making omelettes.

  The morning light shone on the tatami matting and roused a comforting, musty kind of scent that mixed in with the smell of melting butter.

  I thought of a time when I was a young child, before I had my own room at home. Dad slept in another room, ostensibly because he was always back late, and Mom slept with me. Had they not been having sex at that point? I wondered. Maybe their relationship had been sexless even once I was older and had my own room. Had Mom ever had a boyfriend? I was too scared to ask her, yet, but I wanted to sometime.

  My old room had been next to the kitchen, and when I woke up, I could always see Mom’s back as she made breakfast with the door open so I didn’t get lonely.

  Mom had just been doing what she did every day, without any special kindness or warmth. So why had it felt so safe? How had it made me feel as though there was no such thing in this world as war, no murder, no betrayal, no robbery, no rape? How had I been able to feel like the world was full of good people? Granted, I still hadn’t ever directly been hurt by anyone who wished me ill. But I knew now, in a visceral way, that things could happen in the world that were too awful to believe.

  It was bad enough having your father go off and commit suicide with some strange woman, but on top of that, I pitied myself for having become used to it, for accepting it as a part of my life. Back then, I hadn’t had an inkling of anything like that. I’d assumed that both Mom and Dad would live and look after me forever.

  “‘Morning, Mom,” I said.

  “Oh, you’re awake?” she said. “I don’t know why, but I was really hungry. I’ll make you one, too.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be up in a minute,” I said, and roused myself from the futon.

  For some reason, it was easier to get up in the mornings now, in this small apartment, than it had been to get up out of my bed in Meguro. In spite of the traffic noise just outside the window, and the sun streaming in from between the curtains which stopped you sleeping in, unlike the blackout-lined drapes that had protected my sleep in Meguro. Despite the lack of a security system or auto-locking front door, or the fact that Mom and I were living together because Dad was gone.

  Our life now had its own kind of wide-open contentment, like how it felt to be camping and sleeping in a tent.

  “I know it’s pretty cramped here, and I feel bad about taking up more space, but do you mind if I get a planter for the windowsill?” Mom asked.

  “Sure, why?” I said.

  “I was thinking of growing some basil, and cilantro, and rosemary and stuff, things I could put in an omelette, for example,” she said.

  “Wow, then I could even take some in to the bistro,” I said.

  “If they end up doing okay. But if you’re happy with the idea, I’ll go shopping later, for seedlings and whatnot,” she said.

  “I thought you had to wait until spring for seedlings?” I said.

  “Could be. But you never know. There might be seeds maybe, or mint. I’m sure this window gets enough sun to make it work,” Mom said, her enthusiasm undaunted by unseasonableness.

  “That’s true,” I said. I was just happy to see her excited about something, so I didn’t particularly care about the details.

  “That means I’ll have to be here until spring, at least. I don’t know why I never thought of it in Meguro, even though I was doing a lot more cooking there,” she said quietly.

  “Maybe it’s because you’re having fun?” I said.

  “Even though Dad’s not here?” she said.

  “Maybe it’s set you free.” I smiled.

  “Could be. But maybe I was kind of half dead, back then. And Dad too, in a way. Not that Meguro was the problem. There are plenty of people who really enjoy their lives there. I mean, take those people you see on Marie Claire Street in Jiyugaoka during the goddess festival! The look so happy, you wonder if they’re quite right in the head. Checking out the street stalls with a glass of wine in hand, picnicking with their families, and all that,” Mom said.

  “You’re right. I guess it’s not that Shimokitazawa’s special,” I said.

  It was true that Meguro was exciting in its own way. An intellectual atmosphere prevailed there, as though it was full of people who’d only started trying to figure out how to enjoy life once they’d grown up and established responsible lives. And in the backstreets, there were old-fashioned Chinese restaurants and bars, and people from all different walks of life seeking different things. It wasn’t full of young people or tourists, like Shimokitazawa. I recalled a lot of well-heeled ladies, and very young children.

  “But it’s strange,” Mom said. “Back then, it never would have occurred to me to sit down on a bench on Marie Claire Street with a glass of wine and watch the people walk past. I was always rushing, feeling like I needed to be doing something. Emotionally, I was always strapped.

  “This neighborhood reminds me of Yanaka, where we lived for a bit after we got married, when you were a baby. That area has a housing allowance for newlyweds, that was why. We rented a little apartment so we could put some money aside. That’s why I have fond memories, I guess. Back then both your Dad and I were happy, for no particular reason—maybe because we were young, or it was just that kind of age. We’d shop every day in Yanaka Ginza—we’d get deli food for dinner, savory preserves, roasted rice crackers, and then a cup of tea. If we had time, we’d stop at the traditional dessert parlor and have a beer, or some isobeyaki,” she said.

  “I don’t understand how you got from there to being half dead, or—in Dad’s case—actually dead,” I said. I was worried by the thought that it might happen to me, too, once I got married and had children, grew older and less fit, or got busy with work. I imagined how those things must pile up little by little, until suddenly you noticed that you were totally hemmed in.

  “The grime and the haze of being in the world weighed us down, I guess? I know that wasn’t all. I think I got further and further away from myself, and lost sight of what I wanted to do,” Mom said, with a faraway look in her eyes. She lifted the pan and plated up my omelette, and said, “But I know those are just excuses. I’m doing it right this time. That’s my only revenge, and the only thing I can do to honor his memory.”

  When she said that, I suddenly wanted to shout: Mom!

  Instead, I covered my face and started to cry.

  “There’s no need to cry. Look, here’s your omelette,” Mom said, without looking at me, just like she’d done when I was a child. She had a funny habit, at emotional moments, of passing straight through embarrassment into downright coldness. Dad and I had often talked about how contrary she could be.

  I wiped at my tears and ate my omelette. It was warm, with plenty of parsley, and tasted of cheese. It was a familiar flavor I’d known in childhood. Remember, you still have to go to work, I thought. Don’t let your customers see you’ve been crying. Hold yourself together, I told myself, and dried my eyes.

  SHINTANI-KUN TURNED UP AT the bistro again a few weeks later, looking slightly se
lf-conscious.

  We hadn’t even exchanged numbers.

  I’d been working hard that day and was covered in sweat. When I spotted him, I was momentarily embarrassed to be so wilted, but actually, even that brought back a welcome memory—the feeling you got from someone having come to find you, a sensation you could only remember when you were in love, which made you feel like nothing bad could happen—something I could only describe as peace.

  Shintani-kun had sat down at the bar, as usual, taken off his iPod earphones, and ordered the confit duck with a glass of white.

  I suddenly realized that I didn’t know him at all. The things that had shaped his life until now, or the things he hoped for in the future—anything. My emotions quickly cooled, and I remembered that I was at work. I’d never felt comfortable with restaurants where the regulars hogged the seats at the bar and monopolized the staff. I wanted to make the bistro a place where all our customers could feel welcome, which meant I couldn’t be overfamiliar with Shintani-kun. I made an effort to act the same around him, and only Michiyo-san, who’d caught wind of what was going on, had a smile for me every time I went back to the kitchen to fetch a dish.

  “Would you like to leave with me? I’ll walk you home,” Shintani-kun said casually, when I brought his coffee at the end of his meal.

  “Okay, but . . . you don’t know, do you? I only live a minute from here. I’m not even heading to the station,” I said, and pointed out the window. My apartment was brightly lit up inside, meaning Mom was already home. Its romantic potential was severely limited.

  “Do you want to go for a drink, then?” he said.

  “Can you give me thirty minutes? I have to clear up,” I said.

  “Of course. I’ll meet you at the wine bar on Azuma Street,” he said.

  “See you there,” I said. We talked like we’d known each other for a long time, but I had to remember that we hadn’t. I vowed that whatever happened with Shintani-kun, I would never use Dad as an excuse to spend more time with him. Dad might have brought Shintani-kun into my life for me, but from now on, I would square away whatever I discovered about his death on my own.

  Closing up took longer than I thought, and it was forty-five minutes later that Michiyo-san sent me out the door with a knowing smile. I hadn’t been about to cut corners on cleanup or prep just because I had something like a date. I found Shintani-kun perched on a stool reading a book, eating cheese and drinking a glass of red wine.

  “I’ve kept you waiting. Sorry I’m late,” I said.

  “I understand,” he said. “It was a sudden invitation, anyway.”

  We didn’t have anything in particular to talk about aside from Dad, so we talked about music. But the Japanese indie bands that Shintani-kun liked, which actually leaned more toward the dance music end of the spectrum than the rock end, were an enigma to me. My musical education had consisted of a smidgen of jazz, and a sampling of UK and American classic rock. Plus, growing up in a house where there was always music playing, I’d never bothered to put names to the songs I was listening to.

  “So, Yoshie, who’s your all-time top secret celebrity crush?” Shintani-kun asked.

  “Hmm, if I had to choose? I’d have to go for Paddy McAloon,” I said, which fell totally flat, because Shintani-kun had no idea who I was talking about.

  Unfortunately, it simply wasn’t in my character to follow up and patch over this kind of conversational lapse. I was aware that this was a trait of mine that men often took advantage of by assuming whatever they liked about me, and therefore found attractive, but sadly I’d always been that way. I was tired from being at work all day, and this was an impromptu evening, and I didn’t want to have to make too much effort. I did enough of that at work. I just want to have a drink and enjoy myself, I thought, and proposed a carafe of a nice white.

  “Drinks taste better in Shimokitazawa,” I told him. “You watch the people going past outside, and they look so relaxed, and happy, even though they don’t even live here. There aren’t that many places like this in Tokyo.”

  “Yes, I agree, I really think so. Everyone looks youthful, too. Somewhere like Ginza, people look more tired. Although that can be nice, too,” he said, and smiled. It was like seeing a cat stretch.

  His words moved me again, just a little. There’s another thing I like about him, I thought, aside from the way he eats, and I decided to spend some more time like this, finding more.

  BY THE TIME I finally contacted Yamazaki-san, the drummer, Shintani-kun and I had been out several times. I’d been putting it off through being busy, and not knowing where to start with the whole thing, until one day I was off work, and finally got up the nerve to give him a call.

  The main reason was that when Shintani-kun had mentioned him, I’d realized I wanted to see Yamazaki-san again. I hadn’t seen him since Dad’s private funeral—Dad’s band had broken up, so there were no more gigs. Yamazaki-san had always been around, and suddenly I didn’t see him anymore. So I missed him.

  I was pretty sure Yamazaki-san had been Dad’s closest friend. Dad had had a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, as wide as the range of music he did, but I think Yamazaki-san was the only one he ever really opened up to.

  Yamazaki-san was a lot younger than Dad, but he looked far older than he was. Mom and I joked that he looked like the TV detective Lieutenant Columbo, and started calling him that when I was a child. Sometimes, he’d turn up in a trench coat, just like the detective, and Mom and I would look at each other and smile.

  He was well built and tall, and his clear, round, puppy-dog eyes were light brown. His hair, too, was light brown and fluffy, and curled high on his head, and he always went on stage in his normal clothes. According to Dad, Yamazaki-san was quite particular about the color and style of his clothing, and refused to wear things he didn’t feel comfortable in. That explained why he always seemed to be wearing the same thing.

  He also had an unbelievably beautiful wife—so much that when she turned up at their gigs, both the band and the audience would get all unsettled. Mom used to say, “Her beauty outshines even mine.” Secretly, I thought they weren’t even in the same league. She was so slim, beautiful, and graceful in every movement and gesture, she put me in mind of the classic movie stars from the sixties, like Ayumi Ishida or Ruriko Asaoka. Rumor had it that she’d once been a model, and also that Yamazaki-san had fallen for her at first sight and courted her for a long time before she finally agreed to marry him.

  When I spotted him approaching 3.4, an old-fashioned tea shop in Shibuya around the back of Tokyu Hands, I suddenly remembered how I often used to wait here for Dad, back when I was in high school. My chest felt tight at the memory.

  I’d be feeling reluctant about having promised to meet up with him, feeling like maybe we didn’t have much to talk about because of our age difference, and questioning whether I wanted to be there, but then I’d catch sight of his face and feel glad to have gone through with it, after all.

  It’s no good, I thought. There’s no use me doing anything with anyone right now—I’m living in Dad’s shadow, like someone who’s just had their heart broken. I keep looking for him, because he’s the one who’s on my mind. I feared I might have to live with this condition for the rest of my life. That was a prognosis I was hardly prepared for. What a mess I was in! There was no way of knowing whether I’d ever make a full recovery.

  But I had no time to dwell on these thoughts. I was nervous, but seeing as I had asked Yamazaki-san to meet me, it was my job to ask questions.

  “Hi, Yocchan. What’s going on? What did you want to talk to me about?” Yamazaki-san said, gulping down his drink, the strongest coffee on the menu.

  I was drinking a spicy ginger tea with fresh grated ginger on the side. The shop smelled of the sturdy wood of the old, well-polished chairs and tables, dry dust, and old books. Goldfish swam slowly in a round bowl. It was a tea shop, of Dad’s and Yamazaki-san’s generation, not a café. It felt cozy and comforting like s
omething from of my childhood.

  “Well, it’s about the woman who died with Dad. If there’s anything you can tell me, I’d like to know,” I said. “I know my father asked you not to tell us. So whatever you feel able to.”

  It had been a while since I’d talked to a man of his age, and even things like the wrinkles in his jacket and the slightly flabby skin at the back of his neck felt nostalgic and endearing to me. I wanted to breathe in and fill my chest with the familiarity of it.

  When I was a child, Dad often had Yamazaki-san around for dinner. I guessed they must both have had more time back then. His beautiful and quiet wife would come, too, and the adults would have a small party. As an only child, I knew nothing that felt safer than falling asleep listening to the happy sounds they were making. The memories came back to me, vivid and wrenching.

  “That’s tough,” said Yamazaki-san. “It’s true, Imo asked me not to tell you or your mother, because he didn’t want to worry you.”

  “If worrying’s the problem, I don’t see how we could do more than we already have done. And anyway, all that’s over now,” I said.

  “In that case, why don’t you put it in the past, leave things be? Things have moved on in your lives, haven’t they? Isn’t it time we started letting Imo settle into our memories?” Yamazaki-san said, quietly.

  His expression was one I’d never seen on him before. I suddenly understood—he, too, was grieving, for his favorite, longest-running band, and his best friend.

  “Things have moved on, and that’s why I feel like he’s been left behind,” I said. “Right now, Mom’s staying with me in Shimokitazawa, and the old place in Meguro is empty. So I think it’s up to me to sort things out, but I kind of panic. I get worried that Mom’s not worrying about it. But when I try to think about things, I realize I don’t understand, and I get nowhere. I thought you might be able to help.”