‘Hey, what kind of a dog is an Afghan hound?’ I tried asking Takeo. He said, Hmm, and knitted his brows together for a moment. Then he pulled over a memo pad that was on the corner of the dining table and did a quick sketch with a pencil. With a pointed nose and long legs, it was a perfect illustration of what an Afghan hound looked like.
‘Takeo, you’re so good at drawing!’ I cried out. Not really all that, he said, and again started to swing his torso. Hey, so next, draw a borzoi, I asked and, still swinging his torso, Takeo ran the pencil several times over the pad. And in no time at all, the shape of a borzoi appeared on the page. Amazing! That’s amazing, Takeo! I said, and Takeo rubbed the tip of his nose with the knuckle of his index finger a few times.
At my request, Takeo drew pictures on the memo pad of a basset hound, a rice cooker from the 1970s, and Masayo’s doll creations, one after another. Just like that, we moved to the bed, where Takeo then began to draw me at full length. Takeo sketched quickly as I posed like Goya’s Maja. ‘This is like his Clothed Maja,’ I said, but Takeo didn’t seem to know what I meant.
After sketching me for a while, Takeo suddenly let out a brief exclamation. What is it? I asked, and just at that moment he stood up and leaned over me.
Takeo quickly took off his jeans. As I tried to take my own off, Takeo took over. My jeans were a little tight so it took some effort, but he managed to get them off as though he was peeling a fruit. We had sex, briefly.
Hey, that was nice, Takeo, I said afterwards, and Takeo looked at me intently.
He didn’t say anything, but he was still clothed from the waist up, so he took off his T-shirt. I was still wearing my T-shirt too, and I thought Takeo might take it off for me, so for a moment I didn’t move. But he didn’t. I debated whether or not to keep it on or to take it off. Takeo had a blank look on his face. I said his name, and with the same expression on his face, he said my name softly in reply.
We had several days of blazing summer heat. Just when I thought the searing heat would never end, it suddenly turned cool, like the weather in early autumn. The Nakano shop continued to thrive; the helmet and armor that Mr. Nakano had bought from the yakuza mister had sold for just over a million yen, and the bidding for an ordinary-looking Daruma doll that cost 1,000 yen had gone all the way up to 70,000 yen in an online auction. ‘At this rate, I’ll be able to hire two or three more of you, Hitomi,’ Mr. Nakano gloated.
‘But it’s not as if our salary will go up, I bet,’ Takeo and I had said furtively to each other, though at the end of the month when our wages were handed over, there was a bonus of 6,500 yen. There was something about the amount that was just like Mr. Nakano.
On payday, Takeo and I went out drinking for the first time in a while. Lured by a happy hour offering hundred-yen glasses of beer until seven o’clock, we went to a Thai restaurant in the same building as the train station. We drank until after eight, and Takeo ordered his usual rice to finish, scooping it up with nam pla-flavored fried chicken. When we went to split the bill and leave, we saw that Masayo and Mr. Maruyama were sitting near the entrance.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ Masayo said brightly. Takeo took half a step back.
‘Have a drink with us before you go?’ Masayo said. Before we could answer, she quickly moved around the table to sit beside Maruyama. Then she pointed to the chair where she had been sitting and to the one next to it.
‘That’s extremely mysterious,’ Masayo started in as soon as we sat down.
What? We responded in unison.
‘Lately, he says that he hasn’t seen the dog,’ Masayo says, bringing her mug of draft beer to her lips. A waiter was standing beside the table. Oh, I guess we should order. Is beer all right? A bottle, please. And not Singha—regular Japanese is fine, Masayo briskly instructed the waiter.
‘Right?’ When the waiter left, Masayo seemed to peer into Mr. Maruyama’s face, seeking a response. Maruyama nodded with his usual vague look.
‘Is the dog she’s talking about the Afghan at your landlord’s place?’ I asked Mr. Maruyama, who nodded lightly.
‘And what’s more, the stickering is getting much worse, isn’t it?’ Masayo said, peering at Mr. Maruyama again. The waiter brought the beer. Masayo placed glasses in front of Takeo and me and swiftly poured some for us. It was all foam, and Takeo’s glass overflowed. Masayo paid no attention and kept chattering away.
‘Just recently, Maruyama here stopped for a few moments to admire the fragrant olive in the landlord’s garden, and the next day, he says, there were three stickers stuck on his door.’
‘Three stickers?’ I said. Takeo meekly took sips of the foam on his beer.
‘All of the stickers had “Be mindful of the plants and trees in the garden” printed on them,’ Masayo said in an indignant tone. Mr. Maruyama nodded again vaguely. I nearly burst into laughter, but since no one else was laughing, I held back.
‘Where on the door were the stickers?’
‘On the edge, underneath where they put the ones for the census or to show you’ve paid the NHK license fee.’
Wow, Takeo said as if he were exhaling. Masayo glanced at Takeo pointedly. Takeo hastily looked down.
‘It’s difficult to remove them.’ This was the first time Mr. Maruyama had spoken. His voice was pleasant, deep and resonant.
‘I suppose the door actually belongs to the landlord, so it’s probably not illegal for him to put stickers on it,’ Masayo went on animatedly. I see, I replied. Takeo was silent.
Mr. Maruyama drained the beer in his glass mug. Masayo paused to catch her breath, and drank her beer. I picked up my own glass. It wasn’t very cold. When I took a sip, there was only the strong taste of alcohol.
Mr. Maruyama took a piece of fried chicken with his chopsticks. It was the same thing that we had eaten. Masayo reached with her chopsticks at the same time. While the two of them were eating the chicken, neither Takeo nor I said anything. Takeo was tapping his foot along with the beat of the Thai music that was playing in the restaurant. There was no distinct rhythm to the music, though, so the beat that Takeo’s foot was keeping time with was on the late side.
Well, I guess we’ll be on our way.
I stood up, since all I had been doing was watch Mr. Maruyama and Masayo eat their chicken. Takeo got up too, as if he were being dragged. Masayo looked up at the two of us, with an expression that said, Oh, you’re leaving already? Her mouth was full of chicken, so she didn’t say anything.
I made a slight bow. Takeo did the same. Just as we were turning our backs on them, Mr. Maruyama wiped his fingertips on his paper napkin and said, in his low and resonant voice, ‘It seems that the dog has died!’
‘Hitomi, do you like dogs?’ Mr. Nakano asked.
‘Generally,’ I replied.
‘Losing a pet must be terrible,’ Mr. Nakano said as he flipped through the pages of the notebook.
‘Do you think so?’ I replied. I have never had a dog or a cat. When Takeo and I were on our way home from the Thai restaurant where we ran into Mr. Maruyama and Masayo, Takeo had muttered, ‘It’s so hard when a dog dies.’
Did you have a dog, Takeo? I asked. Takeo nodded deeply.
‘I started working at Mr. Nakano’s because my dog died.’
Really? I asked, but Takeo did not offer much further explanation. All he said was, The mutt I’d had since kindergarten died last year. Then he fell silent.
I’ll see you home tonight. Takeo had been so sad after our conversation about the dog that night that I had walked with him all the way to his house. By the time we got close to where he lived, Takeo had cheered up a little bit. Now it’s my turn to see you home, he had said and started to turn back towards the station, but I stopped him.
Once Takeo disappeared through the gate, I turned on my heel and headed for the station. I should have made it to the station in about ten minutes, but at some point I foun
d myself walking along unfamiliar streets. The surroundings all looked the same to me. I seemed to be a little lost.
I thought I was following a street with regularly spaced street lights when suddenly I was in the dark. There were rows of old-looking apartment buildings. There was no sign of anyone around. As I braced myself for a moment, wondering if this was a cemetery or something similar, I heard a dog bark in the distance. Just as I was about to turn back, I realized with a start where I was.
This was Mr. Maruyama’s landlord’s property.
I just stood still for a moment. I recalled Takeo’s voice, saying, It’s so hard when a dog dies. Mr. Maruyama’s evasiveness also came to mind, albeit faintly.
Okay, let’s go, I said out loud as I headed straight for the landlord’s ‘pride and joy’ garden. All three of the apartment buildings were quiet, and I saw no lights on in the main house where the landlord and his wife lived. Passing under the arch with its roses, I strode into the landlord’s garden. The night-blooming vines and creepers were entwined around the trunks of big trees, with huge white flowers in bloom. My shoes made a rustling sound as I stepped on the grass.
As I walked a bit further, I came to a place where the ground was piled up. The earth was heaped in a mound that was just about the length and width of a person lying down. It was the only place where there weren’t any plants. There was the fresh scent of earth that has been dug up and then reburied.
I came to a stop right beside the mound. As I stared at it for a moment, my eyes adjusted. At one end of it stood a cross. Leaning against the cross, there was a photograph of a dog with a long snout. There was a sticker on the top part of the cross. Written on the sticker, it said, HERE LIES PES.
I let out a cry and leapt away from the earth. I hastily made my way out of the garden. I was aware that I was recklessly trampling the grassy undergrowth, but I broke into a run anyway. I was still walking at a quick pace when I reached the station. My fingertips were trembling as I reached into my wallet for some change to buy a ticket. Once I was on the train, the fluorescent lights were uncomfortably bright.
‘I’m thinking of getting a dog,’ Mr. Nakano said with nonchalance.
‘Sure,’ I replied flatly. I hadn’t told anyone about what I had seen that night in Maruyama’s landlord’s garden. Not even Takeo, of course.
The heat has returned, Mr. Nakano said, stretching. When it gets too hot, the customers don’t leave their houses. Hey, Hitomi, if we go into the red, would you give me back that sixty-five hundred yen? Mr. Nakano laughed and stretched again.
Not a chance, I replied. Mr. Nakano stood up and went into the back room. I hear Maruyama is moving, you know, Mr. Nakano said from within. What? Is he going to live with Masayo? I asked. Nope, apparently the landlord’s sticker offensive was too much for him, so he got scared and found a cheaper apartment nearby.
As I contemplated the fact that Mr. Maruyama didn’t strike me as someone who would be afraid of the likes of the landlord, a customer came in and I nodded in greeting. The customer stood in the corner where the picture frames were and sized up what was there. He was picking up each of the five frames that were lined up, one by one, turning them over and bringing them close to his face.
After a while, the customer held out a small frame and said, I’ll take this one. Is the picture inside included in the price? he asked. I looked to see that the frame held a sketch of a woman holding a pose like The Nude Maja. It looked exactly like what Takeo had drawn when he had been over at my apartment the other night.
I let out a little cry. I thought the sketch he had done was a Clothed Maja, but the woman in the drawing in the frame was naked. I was disoriented, my mouth agape. Mr. Nakano called out a welcome to the customer as he came in from the back. The glass of the frame caught the afternoon light, sparkling in reflection.
CELLULOID
The other day, I wasn’t naked, right?’ I said, and Takeo nodded lightly.
‘At what point did you undress me?’ I realized, after asking the question, that it was a strange one.
Not being naked—I was referring to that sketch he made of me. The one that had originally been like The Clothed Maja, but had, at some point without my realizing it, turned into The Nude Maja and shown up, of all places, inside a picture frame in the shop.
Being undressed without realizing it didn’t quite express what I meant. It was impossible to take off or put clothes on the me in the drawing.
‘When did I become naked?’ I rephrased the question. It still sounded a little strange, but the way Takeo glanced up at me from under his brows annoyed me, and I couldn’t think of the right way to ask him.
Takeo remained silent.
‘Hey, this kind of thing, like, creeps me out.’
Takeo opened his mouth, but then closed it again. The Clothed Maja had resembled me, but The Nude Maja didn’t just resemble me—it looked exactly like me. From the texture of my thighs to the spacing between my nipples, even the disproportion of my peculiarly long calves to the rest of my leg—he had captured me with shuddering precision.
‘I mean, a customer saw it.’
Takeo still wasn’t saying anything, so my voice grew high and forceful. I disliked myself for nagging him, and my voice was all the sharper.
That sketch, Takeo began.
That sketch, just what was it? Instantly I pounced. Takeo closed his mouth again. His glare was fixed on the floor, his eyes like a stubborn little creature that lives on a riverbank. C’mon, say something, I prodded, but Takeo held his silence.
In the end Takeo never did say anything about it. As he watched, I tore the sketch, Hitomi, After The Nude Maja, into tiny pieces.
‘Hitomi, you look tired these past few days,’ Mr. Nakano said. Yeah, I suppose so, I replied. It’s just late summer fatigue. The air conditioning is broken in my apartment.
‘Takeo could fix that for you,’ Mr. Nakano said. What? I asked. You mean, Takeo can fix air conditioners?
Mr. Nakano said that last year, when the air conditioner in the shop’s truck was acting up, Takeo cleverly fixed it. I don’t know, Mr. Nakano rolled his eyes as he explained, once he took it apart and fiddled with it this way and that, then it was fixed.
‘Should I say something to him about it?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine.’
Even I was aware that my flat refusal of Mr. Nakano’s offer made me sound snappish and unapproachable. Mr. Nakano regarded me with a look like that of a pigeon pecking at grains on the grounds of a temple. I thought he would ask me if I’d had a fight with Takeo, but instead Mr. Nakano just tilted his head to one side.
Mr. Nakano went out the door and began smoking a cigarette in front of the shop. Masayo was always telling him not to leave ashes in front of his own store, but that day was no different—he thought nothing of leaving his cigarette butt out there. Mr. Nakano’s shadow was trailing behind him diagonally. The dark and squat shade of high summer was no longer with us.
After the temporarily cool days of early September, suddenly we were having an Indian summer, despite the fact that it was almost October. The air conditioning in the Nakano shop was an ancient and hulking thing that made quite a racket when it got going.
This air conditioner is definitely female, Mr. Nakano had said one day. It flies into sudden rages, you know. And with all that clanging—once it says what it needs to say, then it goes quiet. But just when you think it’s done, there it goes again. With no warning, suddenly it flies into another rage.
Takeo had chuckled at what Mr. Nakano had said. This was before the Nude Maja incident, so I had given a carefree laugh as well. Just then the air conditioner had started making loud noises, and the three of us had looked at each other and all burst out laughing again.
Mr. Nakano was now lighting his second cigarette. His shoulders were hunched—although the temperature outside must be close to thirty degrees, f
or some reason he looked like he was cold. It was quiet in the shop. Ever since the Indian summer arrived, customers had been staying away. The street in front of the shop was deserted—there wasn’t a single car. I saw Mr. Nakano sneeze. I couldn’t hear it. I had thought that it was quiet but the air conditioner must have been even louder than I realized. My ears had got used to its hum, and probably couldn’t even differentiate its sound any more.
I followed Mr. Nakano’s movements absent-mindedly, as if watching a silent movie. After wavering over whether or not to light a third cigarette, Mr. Nakano returned the cigarette that had been in his mouth to the pack. But the packet was crumpled up and he had a hard time putting it back in. As Mr. Nakano tried harder to replace the cigarette, his shoulders grew even more hunched. His shadow’s shoulders grew round as well.
At last, unable to put it back in the packet, Mr. Nakano once again put it in his mouth. Then he turned his head around. His shadow’s head moved in unison with Mr. Nakano but the shift was sharper than that of his body.
A cat darted in front of Mr. Nakano. He called out something to the cat. Over the past few weeks, the cat had been peeing in front of the shop. Each time we had to clean thoroughly.
Cat piss stinks like hell! Mr. Nakano would say with seeming annoyance as he scrubbed at it with a deck brush. While both Mr. Nakano and I suspected this spotted cat of making a habit of peeing here, Takeo had been secretly feeding it. At the back door where the truck was parked, Takeo was leaving dry food in the upturned bowl of a small suribachi. The cat always came by just after four in the afternoon. By the time Mr. Nakano got back from a pickup or returned from the market at six o’clock, the dry food had been eaten up.
Takeo called the cat Mimi. When he said ‘Little Mimi,’ his voice sounded much more tender than when he said my name, ‘Hitomi.’
One day, no customers came in at all. But the Nakano shop was not some high-class antique shop—no matter how slow a day it might be, there were almost always at least three or four people who would wander in to browse.
The Nakano Thrift Shop Page 9