The Nakano Thrift Shop

by Hiromi Kawakami

  The phone rang for a long time. Even when I finally picked it up, after about fifteen rings, the caller had not yet hung up.

  They spoke before I could even say, ‘The Nakano shop.’

  ‘It’s me.’

  Excuse me? I asked. The caller was silent. I had a hunch it was Sakiko.

  ‘Mr. Nakano isn’t back yet from the market in Fujisawa,’ I said, making my voice as neutral as I could.

  Thank you, Sakiko replied. After another short silence, she said, This is Miss Suganuma, isn’t it? Since I had started the job at the Nakano shop, only rarely had I been called by my last name, but now it had happened two days in a row.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘My . . . what I . . . you read it, didn’t you?’ Sakiko said.

  Yes, I replied frankly.

  ‘How was it?’ Sakiko asked.

  ‘Thought it was amazing.’ I slipped inadvertently into Takeo’s way of speaking.

  Sakiko giggled to herself.

  ‘Hey,’ Sakiko said, as if we were girlfriends who talked on the phone all the time. ‘You know those celluloid dolls? Don’t you think there’s something erotic about them?’

  Excuse me? I asked in reply.

  ‘I’ve always thought so, ever since I was little—when I see the way their joints move, their arms and legs going all around,’ Sakiko went on.

  I was silent, unable to reply with even a ‘Yes’ or an ‘I see.’ After that, Sakiko didn’t say anything more either.

  The next thing I knew, Sakiko had hung up, and I was standing there in the gloomy darkness, holding the receiver.

  Celluloid, I murmured.

  The lulo of celluloid was difficult to pronounce.

  I replaced the receiver and returned to the back room. I never had any celluloid dolls. When I was growing up, most of the dolls were made of soft plastic—Jenny and Sara and Anna—for some reason they all had foreign names.

  I glanced at Sakiko’s ‘novel’ again, and the word ‘pussy’ jumped out at me. It was a scene in which the man forces the narrator to say this word.

  I could imagine Mr. Nakano doing such a thing, I thought to myself as I put the photocopy back in my cloth bag. The fluorescent lights were painfully bright, and I covered my eyes with the palm of my hand.

  SEWING MACHINE

  A Seiko Matsuda came in, you know,’ Mr. Nakano was saying.

  ‘When’s it from?’ Tokizo asked.

  ‘Says here it’s from the early 1980s,’ Mr. Nakano said as he flipped through the notebook. The words, Seiko → early 80s, written in the notebook that we keep by the shop’s telephone, were in Takeo’s handwriting. Considering his typical demeanor, it was difficult to imagine that these delicate and well-formed characters were his.

  ‘In any case, we’ll attach a photo, and you can let me take care of the sales copy—send it by email to me right away,’ Tokizo said briskly.

  Masayo referred to Tokizo as ‘Mr. Crane’ behind his back. I think it was because he was skinny like a crane, and also because he had the dignity of a lord.

  ‘You know, it’s rumored that Tokizo went to Gakushuin University,’ Masayo had once whispered to me conspiratorially. Oh yeah, Gakushuin? I replied blankly, and Masayo responded by matching my inane tone. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  Tokizo was maybe about sixty-five years old, or past seventy, or he might already have been well into his nineties—it was impossible to tell. The other day he mentioned that he gets a pension, so he must be at least sixty-five, Masayo said. Hey sis, do you have a thing for Tokizo? Mr. Nakano asked. Masayo tautly arched the perfectly groomed crescent moons of her brows as she retorted, What are you talking about? Mr. Nakano answered, I mean, you’re the one who seems to want to know things about Tokizo.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Masayo said, pouting and looking away. Hmm, is it really so ridiculous? I wondered as I stared at her profile without really looking at her. There was no soft downy hair at all on Masayo’s face. Do you shave it? I had asked her once. I do not shave it, Masayo had replied. My hair is very fine. Hardly any grows there at all.

  What? I raised my head in surprise, but Masayo wore an air of nonchalance. Mr. Nakano too seemed indifferent. Such an odd pair of siblings.

  ‘The Seiko Matsuda must be one of those rare life-size stand-up posters, but if it has a few flaws, the starting bid will probably be at the low end.’

  ‘It’s fine if it starts low, then it can go up from there.’

  Mr. Nakano and Tokizo were discussing the items that would be for sale in the online auctions that Tokizo was taking on. Lately the percentage of the Nakano shop’s Internet sales had been increasing. It’s risky to leave things to others, Haruo, so you had better learn how to use a computer, Masayo told him, but Mr. Nakano wanted absolutely nothing to do with the computer, so from the start he had let Tokizo handle it all. I think Tokizo is related to Sakiko, Takeo had told me a little while ago, so that might have been why.

  If Tokizo is related to Sakiko, then Mr. Nakano’s circle is pretty small, isn’t it? I said. Takeo thought about it for a moment and then replied, Mine is even smaller—you and my dog who died. Your dog who died, I echoed. My dog, he repeated. There was a certain contentment in the sadness I felt at that moment.

  Takeo was the one who carried the life-size full-body photo of the 1980s pop star into the shop. Backed by cardboard, it had been part of an ad campaign for a sewing-machine manufacturer almost twenty years earlier.

  ‘That’s Seiko Matsuda, isn’t it?’ Mr. Nakano asked cheerfully.

  I was in the midst of explaining that one of my classmates in middle school had collected celebrity things but that this was a bit outside of what he might consider a collector’s item, when Takeo brought it in sideways.

  ‘People will be startled to come into the shop and suddenly see a full-sized cardboard figure appear before them,’ Masayo said.

  ‘I think these kinds of things are called life-size stand-up posters,’ Mr. Nakano replied, peering closely at the face of Seiko Matsuda.

  ‘Did you get this for free?’ Mr. Nakano asked Takeo.

  ‘Said he would sell it for five thousand yen.’

  ‘He didn’t just give it to you? What a cheapskate!’ Mr. Nakano shouted, slapping himself on the forehead.

  Takeo didn’t say anything and laid Seiko Matsuda down on the tatami. The hair around her ears and her bangs, curled and rolled up and out, had lost some of its color and luster on the posterboard.

  ‘Seiko Matsuda is pretty, isn’t she?’ I said, and Mr. Nakano nodded. I’ve got a few of her records, he said.

  Is that so? I nodded matter-of-factly. Mr. Nakano must have taken a little offense, because he said, ‘It has a slightly different meaning for someone my age to buy her records.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Seiko has a certain kitsch about her.’

  As Mr. Nakano was talking, Takeo went out the back door. Is that so? Once again I nodded matter-of-factly at Mr. Nakano.

  ‘For example, Hitomi, when you hear the word ayu, it calls to mind the delicately sweet fish and the pleasures of an otherworldly nature, does it not?’ Mr. Nakano went on.

  Ayu, I murmured. By Ayu, you mean the singer Ayumi Hamasaki? I asked, purposely imitating the way that Takeo talked. Mr. Nakano let both hands hang down loosely.

  I was about to follow up by asking what he meant by otherworldly nature, but it wasn’t the moment to tease Mr. Nakano, so I thought better of it.

  Well, that’s enough, Mr. Nakano said under his breath, and followed Takeo out. The life-size Seiko Matsuda was lying face up on the tatami. In one hand she held a sewing machine, while the other hand lightly pointed at her chest, and she wore a sweet smile.

  Ayu, my lips formed the word one more time as I shook my head.

  ‘Also need a scrubbing brush,’ Takeo said.

 
A scrubbing brush? I asked.

  ‘For cleaning.’

  ‘But don’t we have a deck brush?’

  ‘You can work into it better with a scrubbing brush.’

  The cleaning we were talking about involved scrubbing the cat pee from the front of the shop. Lately the cat had been peeing there more and more frequently, marking no fewer than three times a day. At the entrance to the alley right beside the Nakano shop, where the asphalt was cracked, tufts of foxtail grass were growing, and it appeared that stray cats were using it as a toilet.

  ‘Who’s going to use this scrubbing brush?’

  ‘You, me, I don’t know.’

  ‘Ugh, not me.’

  ‘Okay, then, I’ll take care of it myself.’

  Takeo looked at me with an upward glance.

  ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it, did I? Just that I don’t want to use the scrubbing brush. I do just fine with the deck brush.’

  ‘I got it.’

  Even with his upturned eyes, his gaze was intense. Was he scowling at me, this guy? I was suddenly annoyed.

  ‘Hey, are you still feeding it?’ I asked. Despite the problem with the cat pee, Takeo was always leaving cat food at the back door.

  ‘Cat who comes to eat is not the same cat who is pissing here.’

  How can you tell? I retorted coolly. Takeo clamped his lips together. His shoulders stiffened. Instantly I regretted what I’d said.

  We were making a shopping list. Masayo had written, Planters, size #5 (two), clay pebbles. Below that was Mr. Nakano’s writing, Gummed linen tape, three rolls; black Magic Marker, broad tip; curry-flavored curls. The hardware store doesn’t sell curry-flavored curls, does it? I tried saying to Takeo, but he remained tight-lipped.

  The phone rang. Takeo was closer to the phone so I waited and let it ring four times, but Takeo made no move to answer it. Hello, I said as I brought the receiver to my ear, and after a brief silence, there was a click as the line went dead.

  ‘They hung up,’ I said as brightly as I could manage, but Takeo still kept silent. The heat of Indian summer had finally ended, and the days had been clear and bright. The clouds were high in the sky. Mr. Nakano was at another dealer’s market that was being held in Kawagoe. I’ll find out what the market price for Seiko is, he had said as he drove away in the truck.

  ‘Cats are cute, aren’t they?’ It was a struggle to keep the conversation going, but I tried aiming for cheerfulness.

  ‘Think so?’ At last Takeo spoke.

  ‘They’re cute.’

  ‘Not so much.’

  ‘So why do you feed them, then?’

  ‘No reason.’

  What is this about? I cried. What is it that I said?

  A bee had flown into the shop, through the front door that had been propped open, and it was buzzing around. With his face still lowered, Takeo was watching the bee’s flight out of the corner of his eye. It soon found its way back outside.

  ‘No reason,’ Takeo repeated. Then he quietly folded up the shopping list and put it in his back pocket, turning his back on me. Do you have money? I called after him. I do, he said without turning around.

  Takeo’s voice was composed, which made me all the more angry. I had a tremendous urge to say something nasty.

  ‘We won’t see each other any more,’ I said. Takeo turned around.

  ‘Just the two of us, I mean, not any more.’

  What? Takeo seemed to say, but I couldn’t catch his voice.

  He just stood there for a moment but then he turned his back again, and this time he hurried out of the shop even more quickly. I wanted to shout after him, Wait! But I couldn’t find my voice.

  I had absolutely no idea why I had blurted out such a thing. The bee came back inside. Just like before, rather than going straight back outside, it flew droning around the entire shop. The sound of its wings echoed loudly when it came near the register. I waved the towel that Mr. Nakano had left on a chair. The towel only fanned the air. Flashing its wings sedately, the bee just kept flying around inside the shop.

  ‘They said Seiko’s campaign for Walkman II went for as much as two hundred and seventy thousand yen,’ Mr. Nakano said, opening his eyes wide.

  At the market in Kawagoe, Mr. Nakano had inquired with the other dealers he knew about the going rate for a life-size stand-up poster. ‘Two hundred and seventy thousand,’ Masayo said, her eyes popping too. Even though they were brother and sister, ordinarily Masayo and Mr. Nakano didn’t look anything like each other, but when they made this wide-eyed expression, they were like peas in a pod.

  ‘They said that the ones Junko Sakurada and Kumiko Okae did for cold medicines also went for almost as much.’

  Really? My goodness, Masayo said, nodding deeply. Under the pretext of preparing for her doll creation exhibition, Masayo had recently been coming to the Nakano shop every day. The inspiration wells up in me when I come to the shop, she would claim, and spend almost the entire afternoon there. Thanks to her, the past month’s sales had been very good. For whatever reason, as long as Masayo is by the register, customers seem to make purchases as if they were under her spell.

  ‘Wow, I wonder if our sewing machine Seiko will sell for as much as two hundred thousand too,’ Masayo said dreamily. The Seiko Matsuda that Takeo had brought in was now standing in a corner of the back room. That girl sure makes it seem easy to hold up that heavy-looking sewing machine, doesn’t she? Masayo said with admiration. These celebrities are so impressive! she went on. I still couldn’t fathom Masayo.

  ‘There’s a big crease on her hip, you know, so two hundred thousand seems unlikely, but I don’t see why it can’t go for one hundred thousand,’ Mr. Nakano replied absently. Since the day before yesterday, he had swapped his beanie for a pom-pom hat like the one the old manga character Sho-chan wore. Soon it will be winter, one of the regular customers had said yesterday, eyeing Mr. Nakano’s hat.

  What do you think, Hitomi? they asked me, and I raised my head. I had been texting Takeo all morning, but he hadn’t replied. He hadn’t come back after he went to the hardware store yesterday. I had lingered in the shop until eight o’clock, but he had never shown up.

  Takeo had apparently come in early this morning to drop off the things he bought at the hardware store, and I had been late to arrive, so our paths hadn’t crossed.

  ‘That guy, he didn’t buy my curry curls,’ Mr. Nakano said, pouting. His pom-pom wobbled. Should I go and get some? I offered. I hate to ask, Mr. Nakano said, even as he was taking out some coins. If there’s any change, buy something for yourself too. Masayo laughed at him. She’s not an errand girl!

  I walked over to an old bakery that was on the edge of the shopping district. I checked my messages as I walked. I didn’t have a single new text. Preoccupied with my phone, I managed to trip over a parked bicycle.

  I righted the fallen bicycle, and as I went to set the kickstand, it made a rasping sound. I looked and saw that the kickstand was bent at a strange angle. In my haste to get my hands off the bike, it fell over again. No matter what I did, I could not get it to stand up on its own. I had no choice but to lean the bicycle up against a utility pole and quietly leave the scene. Just then my cellphone started to ring.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered it crankily.

  ‘This Miss Suganuma?’ I heard a voice say.

  ‘Stop calling me by my last name.’

  ‘Is the only name I want to call you by.’

  So then don’t call me on the phone, I yelled into my cellphone. I heard a crash, and when I turned around to look, the bicycle that had been propped against the pole had fallen over again. Pretending not to notice, I took big strides as I began to walk away.

  ‘Please don’t yell at me,’ Takeo said.

  ‘You’re the one who says things that make me yell.’

  I was trying to remember what
I had written in the texts I had sent during the morning. How are you? I might have said some pretty strange things yesterday. If so, sorry about that. Something along those lines.

  ‘If that’s not really how you feel, then please don’t say things like that,’ Takeo said in a low voice.

  Huh? I retorted.

  ‘Like, that we won’t see each other any more.’

  Come on, isn’t it obvious that I didn’t really mean that? My voice softened a little. My brow relaxed for a moment, but then my jaw tightened up again.

  ‘’Cause I’m mad at you,’ Takeo said, keeping his voice low.

  Huh? I replied again.

  ‘Please don’t call me or send me texts any more,’ Takeo continued.

  My breath caught.

  ‘Okay, bye.’

  The next moment, I heard the sound of the line going dead. He’d hung up on me.

  I didn’t understand what had just happened. I made my way to the bakery and bought some curls. With the change, I bought two mini croissants. I cradled the bag with the curls and croissants against my chest and walked the streets back to the Nakano shop. The bicycle was still lying on the ground. Mr. Nakano and Masayo were in the back room of the shop, laughing loudly. Silently I handed the bag of curls to Mr. Nakano, who looked at them and said, ‘Ugh, no—I told you curry flavor, not consommé!’ Masayo turned to him and said, ‘Go and buy them yourself if you’re going to be like that!’ Mechanically I nodded. Mechanically I took the croissants out of the bag, mechanically I made some black tea, mechanically I brought the croissants to my lips, mechanically I chewed and swallowed. Takeo must have really been angry, I murmured into the air. But why—what was he angry about? I could keep muttering, there would be no answer. Without my noticing, Mr. Nakano and Masayo had disappeared. A customer came in and I called out a greeting. Mechanically the sun went down. When I checked the record on the register, it said the total for the day had been 53,750 yen. I had no memory of ringing up that much in sales. Cold air blew in from the entrance to the shop. I went to close the glass door, mechanically moving towards the front.