The Nakano Thrift Shop

by Hiromi Kawakami

  ‘You know what I mean?’ Mr. Nakano said just as he was about to close the shop. At the height of summer, there had still been daylight up until the moment when the shutter was closed but at some point the sun had started going down sooner than I realized. And once the sun set, the temperature cooled off a bit, unlike in the early days of September.

  Yes? I replied. It had been a while since I’d heard Mr. Nakano use his pet phrase, but today it evoked no mirth in me. Ever since Takeo and I had stopped speaking, I had been impassive to whatever I saw or heard. And I myself found this annoying.

  ‘Are all women really so damned erotic?’ Mr. Nakano asked. As usual, he was abrupt and hard to understand.

  Erotic? I asked. I had intended to ignore him, but I had hardly spoken all day, and I felt like making some kind of sound.

  ‘I mean, I came across something, I mean, something strange written by a woman,’ Mr. Nakano said, plopping down into one of the chairs in the shop. It was an unusual item for the Nakano shop, a true antique. American, late nineteenth century. It had a slender frame with an open pattern on its back, but Mr. Nakano was sitting on it very casually. No doubt he would complain were Takeo or I to sit on it.

  ‘What do you mean by something strange?’ I asked. When he said ‘woman,’ he must have been talking about his lover Sakiko. Mr. Nakano started nervously tapping his foot.

  ‘It’s, you know—’ He broke off, falling silent.

  ‘When you say something written, is it like a letter?’ Mr. Nakano still wasn’t saying anything, so I tried prodding him.

  ‘It’s not a letter.’

  ‘Could it be like a picture?’

  ‘It’s not a picture either.’

  I tried to remember what Sakiko’s face looked like. For some reason, I couldn’t quite fix upon her face when I had met her in the hospital after Mr. Nakano had been stabbed. Rather than what she looked like, I could only recall her sobbing, surprisingly heavy with emotion.

  ‘She says it’s a made-up story, but—’ Mr. Nakano finally began to speak again.

  I did remember Sakiko’s face from the moment when I saw her with Mr. Nakano as they were going into the love hotel. She had suddenly turned around, probably only for a fraction of a second, and my impression of her face in that moment was embedded distinctly in my mind. But whether that was actually what Sakiko’s face looked like, or if it had been jumbled and transformed within my unsteady memory, I couldn’t say.

  ‘A made-up story?’

  ‘It’s, you know, totally pornographic. A story of a woman doing it like crazy.’

  What? I retorted. I did not follow the connection.

  ‘What is the relationship between this woman and the story of doing it like crazy?’ I asked.

  You know what I mean? Mr. Nakano said, taking his head in his hands as his foot kept tapping even more intensely. You know what I mean? She’s writing it! Look, it’s like, like one of those novels! A story about a woman who’s doing it like crazy!

  ‘What? You mean, Sakiko was a novelist?’ I shouted without thinking.

  What the hell, Hitomi? How do you know her name? Mr. Nakano asked, stilling his foot for a moment.

  ‘But, didn’t we meet her at the hospital?’

  ‘But, it’s not as if I introduced her as my mistress!’

  Well, it was pretty obvious. In the first place, she was crying her eyes out, wasn’t she? I said to a dumbstruck Mr. Nakano. I just can’t, I don’t understand her at all, I swear, he muttered.

  ‘Does she have a pen name?’

  ‘Listen—in the first place—I do not associate with novelists, I told you.’

  ‘But you just said that Sakiko is writing a novel.’

  ‘Not a novel—just something like it. Anyway, there’s no plot at all.’

  ‘How pornographic is it?’

  It’s really nothing more than scenes of them doing it. Mr. Nakano gave a deep sigh.

  It sounds like a script for an adult film, I ventured timidly.

  ‘Do adult films even have scripts? Don’t they just film them and then edit them?’

  ‘No, I hear there are some that are quite artistic.’

  ‘But, as far as adult films go, I prefer ones that are simple and easy to understand.’

  The conversation had digressed. Mr. Nakano was slouched carelessly in the chair, looking up at the ceiling. The back of the chair was bending. I was about to utter, Are you sure it’s, uh, okay to do that? But I held my tongue. One time, Mr. Nakano had been using the feather duster on a small jar that looked as though it was going to fall over. ‘Look out!’ I cried, just as the jar fell and broke into pieces. Mr. Nakano didn’t reproach me, but somehow I understood that it was better not to say anything to him in a situation like that. Rarely has the ability to foresee danger been of any use to me—that’s why I spend money like water! This was something Masayo said all the time, whether or not it had any relevance.

  Part of me wanted to know more details about the ‘totally pornographic’ thing that Sakiko was writing, but part of me didn’t want to hear about it. Mr. Nakano had lapsed back into silence. The back of the chair made an ominous squeaking sound.

  The next day, Mr. Nakano was going to the auction market in Kawagoe very early, so I was entrusted with the key to the shop. I opened the shutter when I arrived, and after quickly arranging some items for sale on the bench, I went to put the key away in the back room when I saw there was a note from Mr. Nakano on top of the safe.

  ‘Hitomi, read this and tell me what you think,’ it said, and as my gaze glanced from Mr. Nakano’s scrawl written in blue Magic Marker, I saw that he had left the manuscript pages there beneath his note. It was on the kind of paper that had been distributed in school during composition class: Kokuyo brand sheets lined in brown with spaces for 400 characters on each page.

  There was nothing written on the first page. Picking up the manuscript and flipping through it, I saw that the writing began after five blank lines on the second page.

  ‘Along the midline,’ I read out loud at first. The handwriting was beautiful. It was written in black ink with a fine-tipped fountain pen.

  ‘Along the midline, without straying,’ I continued.

  ‘The forehead, the bridge of the nose, the lips, the chin, the neck.’ This isn’t pornographic at all, I thought as I read. But after the third line, I could no longer read it aloud.

  Here is what kind of writing it was:

  ‘Along the midline, without straying. The forehead, the bridge of the nose, the lips, the chin, the neck, the breastbone, the solar plexus, the navel, then from the clitoris to the vagina and to the anus. Gently trace along with your fingertip. Slowly, over and over, without stopping, as if this caress will go on forever. But without letting your finger drift from the midline of my body.

  For instance, when your finger reaches my breastbone, you must not let your finger trail around my nipples, or trace the wisp of my waist.

  Simply trace the midline with your finger, repeatedly. I still have my panties on. Without leaving the midline, put your finger inside my panties and, even more carefully, trace along where my clitoris, my vagina, and my anus align.

  You must not squeeze or rub, or apply any pressure. Only slightly heavier than a feather, just barely lighter than a stream of water—you mustn’t break the rhythm.

  Simply continue to trace the undulating line of my body, from the forehead to the sacrum, with your wanton middle finger, ever so slowly.’

  I swallowed as I read. The eroticism was different from how I had imagined it. But this time, I clearly remembered what Sakiko’s face looked like. Not only the moment I saw her turn around in front of the love hotel, but I also distinctly recalled her somewhat swollen expression when she had been sobbing at the hospital.

  A customer came in. I hurriedly turned over the manuscript and laid it
down next to the register. Welcome, I said, much louder than usual. The customer looked at me, startled. He was a regular customer, a student who lived in the neighborhood. He stuck out his chin and reluctantly nodded a brief greeting. The student then took a turn around the shop before hastening out the door.

  ‘Sorry, Hitomi, sorry,’ Mr. Nakano said, not very sincerely, as he slipped back into the shop.

  Sorry—what for? I say, furrowing my brow.

  ‘I realized when I was in Kawagoe, you know, that might have been sexual harassment,’ Mr. Nakano said, taking off his green beanie. Since September, Mr. Nakano had been shaving his head. Finally, Haruo is really going bald, Masayo said, but once he started wearing his hair this way, it turned out that Mr. Nakano had quite a nicely shaped head. Or better yet, you’re the type who would look good as bald as an egg! Masayo said admiringly, which only incensed Mr. Nakano.

  ‘Legally speaking, it is sexual harassment,’ I replied solemnly. Mr. Nakano peered into my face. The scent of dust wafted from his shirt. Lots of things at the auction market have been in storage, so whenever Mr. Nakano went there he always came back covered in dust.

  ‘Apart from that, were you able to buy anything good?’ I asked in a completely ordinary tone. Mr. Nakano’s face suddenly brightened.

  ‘Hey, Hitomi, you know, what did you think?’ he asked me without replying to my question.

  Why, what do you mean? I feigned ignorance. I had spent the entire morning reading Sakiko’s manuscript. Actually, I thought it was amazing. I wondered if the first-person narrator was really Sakiko. The sexual act—from the beginning or foreplay, up until the finish or afterplay—was cataloged in vivid, lascivious detail. The narrator came at least a dozen times. Phoof! I said to myself as I devoured the pages. Five customers showed up but, whether or not it was in response to my fervor, just like the earlier student each one of them had hastily retreated from the shop, and so today’s sales were still at zero.

  When I went to the convenience store to get a sandwich for lunch, I decided to make a copy of Sakiko’s manuscript. I felt a little uneasy about it, but I justified it to myself that I wasn’t the one who had asked to see it. As I held the cover of the photocopier over the manuscript, the narrow strip of white light that escaped from the gap was dazzling to my eyes.

  ‘Don’t be mean, Hitomi. You read it, didn’t you? That there,’ Mr. Nakano asked, casting a sidelong glance at the manuscript that was neatly arranged next to the register. Yes, well, I nod. Do you always have sex like that? I asked, making my voice sound as nonchalant as possible.

  ‘Hitomi, isn’t that reverse sexual harassment?’ Mr. Nakano said, pouting his lips.

  So, you don’t? I pushed further.

  ‘I mean, that kind of thing, it’s too much.’

  Really?

  ‘When I have sex, I’m more, like—you know, conscientious and honest,’ Mr. Nakano said as he rubbed the top of his head with the palm of his hand. It made a faint scraping sound.

  ‘Are there people—do they all have such complicated sex?’ I asked as I looked Mr. Nakano square in the face. The ‘I’ and ‘you’ in the story that Sakiko had written had licked every conceivable part of each other’s bodies, they had tried every conceivable sexual position, they had made every conceivable lewd sound, they had indulged in every conceivable pleasure.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Mr. Nakano replied with mild disappointment.

  Now, you see, I’ll lose confidence, with her writing that kind of thing, he went on, blinking his eyes. Suddenly another waft of the scent of dust drifted over from Mr. Nakano.

  So, you mean, your style of lovemaking is simpler? I ventured without thinking, driven by curiosity.

  No, uh, even though I’m middle-aged—you know what I mean?—I still do all right. But, you know, what is it—pretentious? Or elaborate? I mean, really, that business with the finger, that’s not my kind of thing.

  Come to think of it, there was something about Sakiko’s writing that was reminiscent of the way that Mr. Nakano talked. ‘This here, what is it, literary?’

  By the way, what kinds of things were you able to buy today? I changed the subject.

  Without even answering my question about his work today, Mr. Nakano just maintained his vacant expression. At one point he moved as if to sit in that same antique chair but, wavering, he decided not to sit there after all. Instead, Mr. Nakano sank down onto an unstable, three-legged synthetic leather stool which had long languished in the shop.

  There was the sound of a motor at the back door. Takeo had probably returned. Masayo was most likely in the truck with him as well. Masayo had gone along with Takeo, under the pretext of gathering ‘materials’ for her new doll creations. That day’s pickup had been at the home of a man who had been a diplomat for many years and had just passed away.

  ‘There were two Shinsui Itos there,’ Masayo said as she strode into the shop. Mr. Nakano looked up absent-mindedly. Takeo came in behind Masayo. Mr. Nakano glanced at Masayo and then lowered his gaze once again. I myself had turned away the instant Takeo walked in.

  It had been about five days since I had looked Takeo directly in the face.

  ‘Come now, what’s happened here?’ Masayo asked in a forceful voice. Takeo was standing behind Masayo with a blank look. When I looked up for a moment, my eyes met Takeo’s. I glared at him reflexively, but Takeo remained impassive.

  Back at my apartment, I was pouring hot water over instant yakisoba noodles when the phone rang. I grumbled as I answered, holding the receiver between my ear and my shoulder.

  ‘This is Kiryu, is this Miss Suganuma?’ said the voice on the line.

  What? I asked in reply.

  ‘It’s Kiryu, this Miss Suganuma?’ the voice said again.

  What is this? I replied brusquely.

  The caller was silent for a moment. What do you want? I added, even more bluntly. After another brief silence, I could hear a stifled cough.

  ‘Ah, of course, your last name is Kiryu,’ I said reluctantly, since Takeo still wasn’t saying a word.

  ‘Thought you knew, Hitomi.’

  I have a faint recollection, I said. Actually, I knew perfectly well, but it aggravated me to tell Takeo this.

  ‘Um, I’m sorry for drawing you naked without asking,’ Takeo said in a monotone, as if he were reading a script. The way he spoke the words, it was as if he had rehearsed how to say them over and over, and actually practiced speaking them, so that their meaning was already worn thin, for him at least.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I replied softly.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ It was a little depressing to be apologized to repeatedly.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  I didn’t say anything. Neither did Takeo. I stared at the second hand of the small clock that was in front of the phone without really looking at it. It moved slowly from the six to the eleven mark.

  ‘Well, my yakisoba is getting cold,’ I said, at the same time that Takeo uttered, ‘Uh, your naked body.’

  ‘What about my naked body?’

  ‘I think it’s beautiful,’ Takeo continued in a voice that was difficult to hear.

  I didn’t hear you, so say it one more time, I said. Can’t, Takeo replied. I was in the middle of making yakisoba, I said. Yes, Takeo said.

  I’m sorry, Takeo repeated for the last time before hanging up. I shifted the receiver into my hand and looked at the clock—the second hand had reached the six again.

  I stood there watching the second hand as it continued to revolve, over and over. Remembering my yakisoba, I pulled back the lid and, just as I thought, the noodles had absorbed the rest of the liquid and were completely soggy.

  The next day, it was suddenly autumn. The heat had gone, and the sky was impossibly clear.

  Once summer reached its end, various markets popped up all ov
er the Kanto region, which kept Mr. Nakano busy. That day Takeo had also been recruited for the market. Even Masayo, who normally dropped by for a leisurely visit once every three days or so, was occupied with preparations for her doll creation exhibition, which would open in November.

  We had an unusually high turnover—although we sold only small things, the take totaled more than 300,000 yen. Ordinarily, whenever Mr. Nakano hadn’t returned to the shop by closing time, I just left the money in the register and locked up, delivering the key to Masayo’s house. That was the usual procedure, but I was concerned about leaving such a large amount of cash, so I hung around the shop even after closing up.

  I went out the front to lower the shutter, then went around to the back door and locked it from the inside. In the back room, where we usually put an unsold kotatsu, if one was around, there was now a large low table. It was for sale, but each of us used it in turn for our lunch break. Don’t worry if you spill soup or anything on it—that only gives it more charm, Mr. Nakano liked to say.

  I made a pot of tea and drank it at the table, first one cup, then a second, and even a third weak cup of what was left, but Mr. Nakano still hadn’t returned. I had left a message on his cellphone’s voicemail that I was still at the shop, and so I had expected him to knock on the back door when he arrived, but now I worried that I might not have heard him.

  I opened the back door to check the garage, but the truck wasn’t there.

  I took out the copy of the ‘something like a novel’ that Sakiko had written from the cloth bag that I always carried.

  I stared idly at the sentence: ‘At first, when I came, my voice was high. Then, gradually, it grew lower, and deeper.’ Come to think of it, since September began, it seemed as though Mr. Nakano’s trips ‘to the bank’ had been a bit less frequent.

  The phone rang. I walked over towards where it was next to the register, debating whether or not to answer it. The lights in the shop were turned off, so I walked slowly, trying not to kick any of the merchandise.