The Nakano Thrift Shop

by Hiromi Kawakami

  Soon after the bicycle shop owner’s visit, we found out that the man who had been stabbed was someone from the shopping district, and it was close to evening when we learned that the person who had been stabbed was none other than Mr. Nakano himself. The telephone had rung, I had taken my time answering (Let it ring at least three times before answering it, Mr. Nakano would say. If you rush to answer it, you lose the customer, along with the chance for us to sell the thing they were calling about, he had explained as he smoked a cigarette); it was Masayo calling.

  Don’t be alarmed, Masayo said in a tone that sounded even more composed than her usual calm voice.

  ‘Haruo has been stabbed.’

  What? I asked, in shock. The bicycle shop owner had just come rushing into the store again, making a lot of noise. He took one look at me with the phone in my hand and nodded vigorously.

  ‘But it’s not serious at all. There was hardly any blood.’

  I see, I replied, at the same time aware that my own voice was betraying me. As if in inverse proportion, Masayo grew more and more composed. Whether your voice betrays you, or becomes deliberately calm, in the end it amounts to the same thing, I thought in a corner of my mind.

  ‘So I will close up the shop today. I might be a little late, but I hope you don’t mind waiting for me.’

  Yes. This time I replied in a normal voice. The bicycle shop owner was watching my mouth and the back of my hand gripping the receiver, a piercing glint in his eyes. What do you think you’re looking at? I wanted to shout at him, but since I wasn’t one to shout, I couldn’t bring myself to do so. Instead I replaced the receiver quietly and looked straight in front of me.

  ‘It was poor Nakano who got stabbed, wasn’t it?’ the bicycle shop owner asked.

  Well, I said. I don’t know.

  After that, no matter what the bicycle shop owner asked me, I maintained a sullen silence. A little while later, Takeo came back. The bicycle shop owner was chattering on about the details of what had happened in ‘the shopping district’s dead-end assault.’ But there were too many things that were still unknown, and Takeo wasn’t asking the right questions, so the conversation went nowhere.

  ‘Hitomi, should I go to the hospital?’ Takeo asked soon after the bicycle shop owner had left.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t ask which hospital.’

  ‘I could ask the police.’

  Takeo then picked up the shop phone and proceeded to call one place after another. With one hand on the receiver and an elbow holding the notebook open, he wrote down the names and telephone numbers of the hospitals in blue ballpoint pen. The words Satake Clinic, 2 Nishimachi were lined up under bank. I’ll go then, Takeo said, and he trotted off towards the back. The truck’s ignition sounded a few times until finally the engine started, and Takeo beeped the horn once. Then he lightly raised his hand to me, adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, and stared straight ahead through the windshield.

  The Satake Clinic was difficult to find. I had not yet paid a proper visit to Mr. Nakano’s hospital room since having gone along with Masayo to see him that night when she had come to close the shop.

  Even on the day when he was stabbed, despite having only just awakened from the anesthesia, Mr. Nakano had been in fine form, grasping the banana that Masayo had brought him tightly in one hand and peeling it halfway, then munching on it.

  ‘While I’m here, they’re going to do all sorts of examinations,’ Mr. Nakano said blithely.

  ‘What about your injury—is it all right?’ I asked, and Masayo replied instead of Mr. Nakano.

  ‘Sure—after all, something like that doesn’t cause a proper injury.’

  ‘A proper injury?’

  ‘Here I am, thinking it was a knife, but turns out it was just a letter opener.’

  Masayo took the banana in her own hand and peeled the rest of it. Her gesture was polite but—just like Mr. Nakano—she had a messy way of peeling the banana.

  That’s right—Mr. Nakano was stabbed with a letter opener, Masayo explained.

  A letter opener? I repeated.

  That’s right—a letter opener, of all things!

  Can a letter opener be used to injure someone?

  No, as you can see.

  But he was bleeding, wasn’t he?

  Wouldn’t you know—that’s just like Haruo!

  When Masayo told me on the phone that Mr. Nakano had been stabbed, my first thought had been that it was ‘the Bank’ who had stabbed him, but that was not the case.

  ‘Do you remember, the other day, I was on a long phone call?’ Mr. Nakano chimed in.

  ‘A long phone call?’

  Two or three times a day, Mr. Nakano would be on the phone for an extended period. Mostly it was with customers who were calling for the first time. When it comes to old things, whether buying or selling, why is it that people act so cautious? Mr. Nakano would grumble every so often. With something brand new, they have no problem just ordering it from a catalog, no matter how expensive it is.

  ‘When was this long phone call?’

  I think about a week ago? There was a woman who called in a complaint, something that she wanted sharpening with a whetstone. As he spoke, Mr. Nakano took another banana, this time peeling it smoothly all the way to the bottom and then shoving the entire thing in his mouth. You’re going to choke if you try to eat that all at once! Masayo said. What the hell are you talking about? Mr. Nakano exclaimed, his mouth full of banana. Don’t you see the articles in the newspaper about people choking on bananas? Masayo said. Come on, that’s only at New Year’s, with mochi rice cakes, Mr. Nakano replied.

  ‘Wait—was that, by any chance, written in the notebook?’ I asked, remembering complaint written in black and blue and red letters.

  That’s right. The woman was really persistent. She was quite angry, demanding that I sharpen the letter opener she had bought because it wouldn’t cut anything.

  ‘Is a letter opener something you usually sharpen?’

  One that’s top quality, sure you do. But the kind of flimsy ones like we sell? Probably not. Mr. Nakano tilted his head as he said ‘not.’ For a moment he wore an expression as if he were gazing at somewhere off in the distance. But you know, there was something rather nice about her voice, Mr. Nakano went on.

  The woman with the nice voice called again. This time, she wanted him to bring the whetstone and meet her at the edge of the shopping district. It was a strange phone call. In this business, Mr. Nakano explained, one encounters all sorts of weird things so one becomes inured to it, but still, ‘the edge of the shopping district’ struck him as odd. It was not the kind of place where one usually met up with someone. But, charmed by the voice, he went anyway.

  ‘My dear!’ Masayo uttered these two words softly. Mr. Nakano cast a glance at her and shrugged his shoulders.

  Mr. Nakano took the whetstone, without even bothering to wrap it up in anything, and made his way to the edge of the shopping district at the appointed time. The woman was there. She was wearing a bibbed apron over a knee-length skirt, she had on white socks with sandals, and her hair was in an updo. What stuck in his mind was how the front of her sandals were like some sort of mesh. Right—they were like the ones that were sold up until the mid-1970s. Of course a thrift shop owner would notice such a minute detail.

  The woman appeared to be about the same age as Mr. Nakano. She wore heavy lipstick. Beware, Mr. Nakano thought to himself. There was something dangerous about this woman. It was his instinct as a thrift shop owner. Or rather, it was what any normal person’s instinct would have told them too.

  Squat down! she ordered him. Huh? Mr. Nakano replied.

  Squat down there and sharpen my letter opener, the woman said. It was the same pleasant voice that he had heard on the phone. It sounded even nicer in person. I got a little hard-on, Mr. Nakano muttered. Masayo clucked her tongue.
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  As if under her spell, Mr. Nakano squatted. He set the whetstone down on the ground and poured over it some mineral water from a small plastic bottle that the woman gave him, and he began to slowly sharpen the letter opener that she held out to him. The woman was standing in the middle of the street, her feet set apart and her hands on her hips.

  Mr. Nakano continued to slowly sharpen the letter opener.

  Perhaps from the lingering effect of the anesthesia, Mr. Nakano had suddenly fallen asleep after that, and no matter how Masayo shook or pushed or pulled him, he didn’t wake up. Since then, amid the hectic rush of the Nakano shop without Mr. Nakano, neither Takeo nor I had gone to visit him. Whereas things had been slow when Mr. Nakano was off gallivanting in Hokkaido, lately the shop was doing a brisk business.

  When our day off finally came around, Takeo and I decided to meet up in the late afternoon to pay a visit to the Satake Clinic. I had missed hearing about how Mr. Nakano had been stabbed by the woman after he sharpened her letter opener. I considered asking Masayo, but I was reluctant to have that conversation in the store. The bicycle shop owner from two doors down might be watching carefully and could burst in at any time.

  We should bring some fruit to the hospital, Takeo said. Doubt that Mr. Nakano cares much for flowers.

  Takeo chose strawberries. They’re expensive, I said from the side. He’s in the hospital, after all, Takeo replied. We took two packages of enormous strawberries, but when we got to Mr. Nakano’s private room, he wasn’t there; he had already moved to a six-person ward.

  It won’t be easy to get the whole story of the stabbing in a six-person room, I thought to myself as we opened the curtain to Mr. Nakano’s corner bed—and there was ‘the Bank.’

  I caught my breath in surprise, and ‘the Bank’ smiled. Indeed, the contrast between her tapered eyes and her full lips was alluring. This is Sakiko from the Asukado, Mr. Nakano cheerfully introduced her. This is Hitomi and Takeo, he says, turning to Sakiko.

  The Asukado—you mean, the shop with all the pots and jars? Takeo asked, and Sakiko nodded. They’re a real antiques dealer, Takeo went on. Sakiko shook her head slightly. Her gesture could have been interpreted as either yes or no. She had an air about her that was completely incompatible with someone like Mr. Nakano.

  Hey, Hitomi, I bet you want to hear the rest of the story from the other day, Mr. Nakano said without even lowering his voice. Even in front of Sakiko, his attitude was exactly the same as when it was just Masayo or the two of us. Sakiko offered chairs to Takeo and me.

  No, well, I said, but Mr. Nakano grinned. Don’t hold back—it’s not good for your health! If all you do is deprive yourself, the first thing to happen is impotence!

  I was curious to see the look on Takeo’s face, but I didn’t dare turn my head.

  ‘So I sharpened it,’ Mr. Nakano began, back to his usual abrupt manner.

  I sharpened it. Slowly and carefully. Then when I finished, I stood up and handed it to the woman. The letter opener. Will it cut now, I wonder? the woman asked. Will it really cut something? It will cut now, I assured her, and without any warning, she thrust the letter opener into my side. She didn’t make any kind of motion beforehand to pull back or to hold up the blade—she jabbed it into my side, as naturally as if she were swatting an insect in front of her—just like that.

  Mr. Nakano chatted away as if he were speaking lines that he was used to repeating over and over. Takeo and I were dumbfounded.

  I had done such a good job sharpening the damn thing—normally it couldn’t have been used to stab a person, but now this letter opener cut very well!

  The moment that Mr. Nakano finished saying this, Sakiko let out a little ‘Ah!’ Then she suddenly burst into tears.

  I thought her tears had just spilled over, flowing from her eyes and running down the curve of her cheeks, but once she started there was no end to it. Sakiko simply cried, without making a sound. I guess this is what is meant by the phrase, a flood of tears. In the midst of it, Mr. Nakano said to me, ‘Give her a tissue,’ and then to her, ‘Here, take this,’ as he passed the packet of tissues advertising a personal loan company that I handed him, but otherwise, nobody said anything. Sakiko went on crying, without making any noise at all. She didn’t use the tissues, she didn’t even wipe the mucus from her nose—she just kept on crying.

  When she had seemingly cried her fill, her tears ended as abruptly as they had begun. It’s all right, the woman has been arrested, I’m sure she will be charged, Mr. Nakano said, even though Sakiko seemed not to hear him as she sat as still as a statue. I suddenly had a fleeting memory of the statue of a dog or a rabbit or a bear or I don’t know what that Masayo had photographed with her digital camera. If Sakiko were photographed from every angle, I’m sure those pictures would sell. This thought also flitted through my mind.

  You’re right, it’s my fault, Mr. Nakano apologized. It was the kind of apology that sounded like he had no idea why he was the one apologizing. Sakiko said nothing. Finally, as she reached into the packet of tissues and blew her nose quite loudly, Sakiko looked Mr. Nakano sternly in the eye and said, ‘From now on, I’ll make sounds.’

  What? Mr. Nakano said in a wild voice.

  I’ll make sounds. So from now on keep your hands off anyone other than your wife, Sakiko said, speaking softly but with distinct pauses between her words.

  Oh, Mr. Nakano replied. His voice is like that of a sumo wrestler who has been overpowered and pushed out of the ring.

  Uh huh, right, I promise. Of course, Mr. Nakano said timidly.

  Remaining stern, Sakiko stood up and left the ward. She walked away, just like that, without turning back.

  Takeo and I soon left the room as well, walking with quick steps towards the elevator.

  Sure seemed like a tough one, Takeo muttered.

  Masayo said as much. She said Mr. Nakano always goes for the tough ones.

  But she was pretty, that one.

  Is that the type you like? I asked Takeo. I had done my best to feign nonchalance but had not been very successful.

  Don’t really have a type, Takeo replied. Just what did she mean, about making sounds?

  She meant when she comes, she’ll make a sound.

  What? Takeo said loudly.

  We fell silent for a while after that. We were totally quiet, and then, as if with finality, I sighed deeply.

  Hey, you know. Even if I were reincarnated, I wouldn’t want to come back as Mr. Nakano, I said.

  Takeo chuckled. There’s no way that could happen.

  Sure, but nevertheless.

  But, have to say, I don’t dislike Sakiko, Takeo said.

  Me neither, I didn’t dislike her. And, of course, I don’t dislike Mr. Nakano, I thought to myself. There are plenty of people in the world I don’t dislike, some of whom I almost like; on the other hand, I almost hate some of those whom I don’t dislike, too. But how many people did I truly love? I wondered, as I clasped Takeo’s hand lightly. Takeo was in his own world.

  When we left the hospital and I looked up at the sky, there was a star whose name I didn’t know but that was always visible at this hour during that time of year; it had enough brightness to shine palely in the sky. Takeo, I said. Yes, he replied. Takeo, I said once more, and Takeo kissed me. It was a simple kiss, without any tongue. I didn’t use my tongue either, I just stood still. Such warm lips, I thought to myself. Somewhere I heard the sound of an engine starting, and then it quickly stopped.

  BIG DOG

  You know what I mean? That, uh, huge, what do you call it?’ Mr. Nakano asked as he took off his black apron. There weren’t any pickups scheduled for that day, but a customer had called a little while ago to request an appraisal. Appraisals were not Mr. Nakano’s strong suit, but the customer had been most persistent, and now it seemed he had no choice but to go over and take a look.

  ‘A b
ig what?’ I followed up.

  As usual, Mr. Nakano’s conversation was unexpected.

  ‘With long hair, and kind of . . . like a woman who is a bit hard to approach,’ Mr. Nakano went on, unfazed.

  ‘Do you mean a woman?’

  ‘No, no—I’m not talking about a person.’

  ‘Not a person?’

  ‘A dog—I’m talking about a dog,’ Mr. Nakano said impatiently as he tossed his apron into the shop’s tatami room at the back.

  A dog, I repeated.

  Right, a dog, you know. One of those—what do you call it—like those tall, long, and thin ones that are always frolicking around the gardens of aristocrats.

  I laughed at Mr. Nakano’s words. The expression ‘frolicking around’ didn’t seem to go with the idea of ‘aristocrats.’

  ‘All right, I’ll be off then,’ Mr. Nakano said as he ran his hands through the many pockets of his nylon vest.

  See you later, I responded.

  I heard the clear sound of the engine. Last week, the Nakano shop had, in the parlance of Mr. Nakano, done a ‘full change-up’ on the truck’s engine. It wasn’t just the battery that was kaput; the drive belt was practically ready to snap, as they had found out during the last vehicle inspection.

  Takeo and I were used to driving this truck, so we were pretty good at getting around using the belt as it was. Mr. Nakano went on, grumbling endlessly to himself as he eyed the bill from the repair shop. Can he really be serious when he says that? I tried to ask Takeo furtively; he nodded with an earnest look. He’s definitely serious, Mr. Nakano.