The Nakano Thrift Shop

by Hiromi Kawakami

  ‘I wonder if he’s got some kind of terrible disease?’ I asked Takeo furtively.

  Takeo shook his head. ‘Nah, just ate too much.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘My grandfather looked exactly like that when he gained weight.’

  ‘Do you think he just ate a lot of hokke and potatoes?’

  ‘Genghis Khan barbecue,’ Takeo supposed.

  Mr. Nakano was soon back to his former self. The belly that had looked as if it was swathed in three bath towels went from two towels down to one towel, until finally he was even somewhat thinner than he had been before.

  ‘Now he’s suddenly too thin. He definitely has some kind of disease, right?’ I said to Takeo, who laughed.

  ‘Hitomi, you must really like Mr. Nakano.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You care about him, don’t you?’

  I harboured no particular affection for Mr. Nakano. It was sheer curiosity. I don’t, I told him later, but I couldn’t manage to add that I was only having a laugh, because for some reason I felt embarrassed. Takeo had just finished unloading a pickup; sweat ran from his temple down his cheek. I stole a glance at Takeo’s sweat. I closed my eyes and, as I was just about to experience a tender moment—one that might make me want to squeeze my legs together—I hurriedly opened the notebook.

  There were various messages written in the notebook. 204 Heights Kitano. Bid up to 20K. Call from vehicle inspection. Complaint, woman, whetstone.

  Whetstone was written in light blue marker. Woman was in orange, the Com in Complaint was black, the pla was blue, and the int was red. Mr. Nakano must have done this while he was on the phone. Whenever he was on a long call, he always opened the notebook and doodled. So that in between the words Call from vehicle inspection there was a drawing of a young guy who looked like Takeo from behind, some nonsensical lines, and a sketch of a vase. Mr. Nakano’s drawings were rubbish, but somehow, it was perfectly clear what he had drawn.

  The vase was the one that Masayo was now photographing with the digital camera. ‘Might be a Gallé,’ she was saying, but Mr. Nakano laughed at the idea.

  ‘What’s a Gallé?’ Takeo asked.

  Mr. Nakano thought for a moment and then replied, ‘A man who worked in glass with designs of things like dragonflies and mushrooms stuck on them.’

  ‘Sounds awful.’

  ‘Well, I guess it’s a matter of taste.’

  You people don’t appreciate the beauty of this vase, Masayo said, this time clicking the shutter from an upward slanting angle. Tch, goes the faint click. Digital cameras are definitely not for me, Mr. Nakano gripes. If it doesn’t make any sounds or say anything, how am I to know? he muttered.

  Would call that a sound, Takeo tilted his head. Mr. Nakano stood up and headed for the back. Haruo really is conservative, Masayo said as she gently moved the vase, and then set up an unidentifiable animal figurine in front of the wall. It’s a dog, she said as she shifted the angle of the figurine this way and that. Maybe it’s a rabbit.

  It’s a bear, Takeo said.

  You could hear the sound of Mr. Nakano starting up the truck’s engine through the wall. But the truck simply wouldn’t start. Just when you thought you heard the sound of the ignition, right then it would fall silent. Battery might be dead, Takeo said as he too headed for the back.

  I couldn’t hear the tch sound as Masayo clicked the shutter; it was drowned out by the noise of the engine trying to start. The push of the shutter on the digital camera was shallow, so it was hard to even know when Masayo was snapping away with her finger. As she lowered the camera, then started moving again, I became confused about where to focus on her silhouetted movements.

  Slowly my gaze returned to the notebook. I stared at the light blue letters of the word whetstone. For the umpteenth time, the rough sound of the truck’s ignition echoed from the back.

  ‘What do you think?’ Mr. Nakano asked.

  There had just been a trio of middle-aged women in the shop. They were about the same age as Mr. Nakano or perhaps a little younger, and I thought they had probably taken the train to visit this neighborhood. As Masayo had recently commented, ever since they renovated the building that housed the train station about two years ago, the clientele had changed a bit.

  ‘One of the women was pretty.’ Two of the three were decked out in rings and earrings and had been wearing T-shirts featuring unusual lace designs or drawings of cats—it was hard to imagine where they had bought them—but the other woman had been dressed in a simple beige summer sweater worn over a pair of narrow trousers, accessorized with only a luxurious-looking gold wristwatch.

  ‘That watch was pricey. Probably an antique.’

  The things on sale at the Nakano shop are second-hand goods. We don’t deal in vintage or antiques. I recalled the words Mr. Nakano had said to me on the first day I started working there, and gave a little laugh.

  ‘In the end, those three women didn’t buy anything.’

  The one with the gold wristwatch had picked up the turtle paperweight and deliberated for a moment. Then she had gently put the paperweight back down, and next looked at an Imari bowl that had come from a pickup at an acquaintance of Masayo’s. In the meantime, the two overly accessorized women had been making comments laced with criticism about the menu at the place where they had apparently had lunch.

  It said they were truffles, but I thought that bit of black powder was dust that had fallen into the sauce. And the lychee sorbet, I bet they just added the flavoring to it. Lychee essence—the kind of thing they sell in Hong Kong or somewhere. I mean, we might have been better off going all the way to Hong Kong. Of course, they sell that here in Japan too. The two of them had kept up this torrent of conversation, while one of them picked up a bag of dyed grasses made by Masayo and stuck her nose inside to smell it.

  ‘I thought she was going to buy the Imari bowl,’ I said, and Mr. Nakano nodded.

  ‘So, what do you think? That was like the moment when you go into a love hotel, you know?’

  What? I cried. As usual, Mr. Nakano’s comment was completely out of the blue.

  ‘What do you mean by “that”?’

  ‘You know what I mean? The things a woman says. Like, you know, darling, you have impeccable timing when it comes to entering a love hotel.’

  What? I retorted. Is that what the woman with the gold wristwatch said?

  ‘Why does that happen?’ Mr. Nakano furrowed his brow and looked at me. I was the one who wanted to furrow my brow.

  Mr. Nakano soon unknit his brows and began to speak raptly, That woman from just now looks like the type who would say something like that to me.

  ‘Is it a bad thing to have good timing?’

  ‘She said it’s unbecoming to have timing that is too perfect.’

  I burst out laughing at the word ‘unbecoming.’ Mr. Nakano kept a straight face as he went on.

  ‘In the city, the entrance to a love hotel is always along a street where there are lots of people coming and going, right?’

  Outside the city, you can drive a car to a love hotel that’s by the side of the road, so you don’t have to worry, but when you walk into a love hotel in the city, you have to be concerned about attracting attention. Especially during the daytime. Mr. Nakano explained all this.

  As I nodded along, listening, I realized that, whereas I hadn’t been before, I was now completely familiar with this manner of Mr. Nakano’s, and I let out a brief sigh. Paying me no heed, Mr. Nakano resumed what he was saying.

  ‘You take a quick look behind you and ahead of you, and then you dart inside. And that’s about all there is to it,’ Mr. Nakano said as he looked straight at me. He wore a serious expression.

  ‘Right when we went inside, there was a step, and she, well, she tripped.’

  But you didn’t trip, Mr. Nakano? I asked, and he nodde
d in assent.

  ‘Because I have sharp reflexes.’

  ‘You said that she did trip, though.’

  Right, Mr. Nakano said. Then, we went to a room, we did this and that, and afterwards, in the midst of saying that it had gone well, she started to give me a hard time.

  As I listened to Mr. Nakano’s stop-and-start style of chatter, I was reminded of Masaki, a classmate from my third year of elementary school. Masaki had a ten-yen-sized bald spot on his head, and even though he was short, his feet were too big for his body—he was not very good at dodgeball. He was always the first to get hit with the ball and then he was out. I was usually the second or third to be out, so I spent a lot of time just standing there next to Masaki on the sidelines.

  Masaki and I hardly ever said anything to each other, but one time he blurted out, ‘You know, I have a bone.’

  Almost all of the other kids were out, and only the two or three strongest players were still in the game. Masaki and I were all the way back by the gymnastics bars, watching the ball as it went back and forth from one court to the other.

  I have my older brother’s bone, Masaki said. What are you talking about? I asked. My older brother died the year before last, Masaki replied. But how come you have his bone? I asked. I stole it from the urn—I really loved my brother. That was all Masaki said before falling silent again, leaning against the bars. I didn’t ask him anything more about it.

  I ran into Masaki right before graduating from high school—we hadn’t seen each other for a long time. He had grown super tall, and what was more, he said that he was trying for admission to a really selective university. University of Tokyo? I asked. Masaki laughed and nodded briefly. Hitomi, I bet Todai is the only selective university you know of, right? he said, using the abbreviated name for it. Sure is, I replied smugly, as I stared at Masaki’s head. His bald spot was hidden by his hair and I couldn’t see it.

  ‘When you say she was giving you a hard time, what did she do?’ I asked Mr. Nakano.

  ‘You know, it was like I was too skilful at certain things, and she didn’t like it.’

  And were you proud of that? I asked. That’s not it, Mr. Nakano said with a bemused expression. I usually take my time, I try to make sure she comes more than once, I change my underwear every day.

  ‘What?’

  ‘And then, I mean, along with her telling me all those things are unbecoming—I mean, what’s more—when she comes, she doesn’t say anything. Not even a moan or a sigh. Most people make a little sound, don’t they? I can’t seem to figure this woman out. She’s just like that digital camera, isn’t she?’

  ‘I see,’ I said dryly. There was no other way for me to respond.

  A customer had come in. It was a young man. He glanced impatiently around the shop’s interior, and in what seemed like a haphazard fashion, he grabbed a few sets of menko playing cards from the 1960s or ’70s. When he brought them to the register, I realized he had in fact chosen the cheapest of the Showa-era menko sets, which were among the most expensive items in the Nakano shop. Thank you, I said as I put the menko cards in a paper bag. The customer was looking blankly at my hands. When I first started working here, it made me nervous when people watched my hands, but by then it didn’t bother me in the least. Thrift shop customers, on the whole, watch hawkishly at the register during payment and receipt of goods. Mr. Nakano let out a sigh as he went outside. The customer left the shop shortly after Mr. Nakano. It was damp and humid; the sky looked like rain.

  It was pure chance that I met Mr. Nakano’s ‘bank.’

  By his ‘bank,’ I mean Mr. Nakano’s lover. Ever since Takeo had at some point told me that when Mr. Nakano would say, ‘Just off to the bank,’ he was most likely meeting his lover, the two of us had been in the habit of referring to this woman of Mr. Nakano’s—whom we had never seen—as ‘the Bank.’

  I happened to come across ‘the Bank’ on the street near the bank.

  As usual Mr. Nakano had gone out while it was still early in the afternoon, saying ‘Just off to the bank,’ so right when Takeo came back after finishing a pickup, I asked him to mind the store while I myself went to the bank to pay my rent.

  Even though it was only the beginning of the month, the bank had been crowded. The Nakano shop paid my monthly salary in cash. The portion for any days missed was deducted from the monthly total, and the final amount was handed over in a manila envelope at the end of the month. Occasionally Mr. Nakano made mistakes in his calculations, so I always made a point of taking the money out of the envelope right then and there and checking the amount. So far, twice there had been too little and once there was too much. Even when the error was in my favor, I informed Mr. Nakano of it promptly. You’re so honest, Hitomi! To go to such trouble for that, Mr. Nakano said in a strange voice, magnanimously accepting the 3,500 yen I held out to him.

  The line did not seem to be moving at all, so I decided to go and buy some stockings first. I had just remembered that my cousin’s wedding was next month. My cousin, who was the same age as I was, had been working at a travel agency for three years after graduating from university, but she worked herself so hard that she fell ill. Nevertheless, she was so industrious by nature that it seems she couldn’t bear to sit idle, so she registered with a staffing agency, and after all that, was now basically working again day and night. When I heard that the guy my cousin was marrying was the chief of the company she had been placed with, I had to admire her. It really was just like my cousin to find a husband with such an ill-defined title as ‘chief.’ I bet the wedding favors will be from among ‘Your Choice of Items Worth ¥4,000,’ I thought to myself as I made up my mind to head over to a clothing boutique just a little way beyond the bank. No sooner had I stepped outside than Mr. Nakano and ‘the Bank’ appeared before my eyes.

  Mr. Nakano and ‘the Bank’ were turning the corner in front of me. Just a little way along that street was the entrance to a love hotel. I never imagined he would go to a love hotel this close to the shop. I followed Mr. Nakano more or less without thinking. ‘The Bank’ had nice legs. She wore a tight skirt that was cut just above her knees with a close-fitting T-shirt, and a thin scarf was wound loosely around her neck and trailed behind her. ‘The Bank’ looked around and for a moment I froze, but she quickly turned back without seeming to notice me.

  ‘The Bank’ was pretty. To call her a beauty might have been going too far, but she had a delicate complexion—she seemed to be wearing hardly any make-up yet her skin was flawless. Her eyes may have been narrow but her nose was straight. There was something inexplicably vibrant about her lips. At the same time, she had a purity about her.

  So this pretty woman was the one Mr. Nakano couldn’t figure out, the one who didn’t make a sound. I followed them, my mouth agape. Mr. Nakano and ‘the Bank’ kept going straight ahead. When they reached the entrance to the love hotel, Mr. Nakano turned a full circle. He surveyed the entire street with a covert glance. At first, Mr. Nakano seemed not to register that it was me. But then immediately after that, he opened his eyes wide. His lips formed the shape of my name.

  Just like that, Mr. Nakano was drawn into the entrance of the love hotel. He appeared to have been literally swept inside, regardless of his own will, whether he wanted to or not. ‘The Bank’ was also drawn within. Well, well, he was pretty good at that. I had to admire him.

  I pulled myself together and went to the clothing boutique, where I bought some stockings. After wavering, I chose fishnets. I recalled browsing through an article in a fashion magazine that said, ‘Guys go crazy for a glimpse of fishnet stockings between your boots and your skirt.’ After buying them, I realized that it was summer so I wouldn’t be wearing boots, not to mention the fact that I didn’t own a skirt that was the right length for catching a glimpse of stockings. And in any case, I had virtually no occasion to wear skirts other than this wedding, so it really didn’t matter. Maybe I could try
them on when Takeo came over to my place, like some kind of cosplay. But what kind of costume anyway? With this nonsense in my head, I walked along the street back to the store.

  It was just before Mr. Nakano came back to close that I realized I had forgotten to do the bank transfer for my rent. Welcome back, I called out to him as he returned. As if nothing had happened, Mr. Nakano replied, Here I am! In the notebook, I wrote down the word bank in blue ballpoint pen. The letters looked scruffy lined up below the word whetstone in thick light-blue marker.

  Is a whetstone the same thing as a grindstone? I was about to ask Mr. Nakano, but he had retreated to the back. Goodbye, I called in that direction as I set out to leave. Goodnight! Mr. Nakano’s voice drifted from the back. See you tomorrow, I heard him add. His voice flickered brightly, like a ghost in the daylight.

  I think someone’s been stabbed in the neighborhood! shouted the owner of the bicycle shop two doors down as he burst into our store.

  He told us that the only thing known so far was that ‘a middle-aged man was stabbed.’ The incident happened in an alley at the end of the shopping district, and the man was taken away in an ambulance. There were no witnesses, and apparently the guy who was stabbed dialed the emergency number himself. It was only once the ambulance arrived that anyone realized the man was lying there, and by the time curious onlookers began to gather, both the man and the ambulance were already gone.

  The bicycle shop owner, in his work clothes, was stout and fat—the exact opposite of Mr. Nakano. That guy doesn’t even drink or smoke, so Mr. Nakano once said. Mr. Nakano always seemed as if he was trying to keep his distance from the bicycle shop owner, but the guy would come by the Nakano shop from time to time, putting on a patronizing air as an older and wiser business owner.

  Mr. Nakano said that he and the bicycle shop owner had gone to the same elementary and middle schools. You know Higonokami?—they make really good penknives for sharpening pencils. I mean, they’re not just good for sharpening—they will carve up a pencil nib like the imperial battleship Yamato—they’re ridiculously good! Yet still, the time when I forgot my pencil case and asked to borrow one, the only thing he lent me was this amazingly stubby pencil, even the lead was worn down to a nub. Meanwhile, he must have been hiding a pencil like the Yamato or like a Zero fighter in the palm of his hand. That’s the kind of guy he is. This was how Mr. Nakano once described the bicycle shop owner.