The Briefcase

by Hiromi Kawakami

  “I’m just tapping my foot.”

  I had been nervously shaking my foot since the Giants had gained their lead.

  “The nights are getting cold,” I said, apropos of nothing and not even in Sensei’s direction, but more toward the ceiling. At that moment, the player for the Giants got another hit. Sensei cried out “Oh!” just as I muttered “Shit!” without meaning to. This run gave them a secure four-run lead, and the bar exploded with excitement. Why were Giants fans so ubiquitous? It really was annoying.

  “Tsukiko, do you hate the Giants?” Sensei asked me at the bottom of the ninth, when the Tigers were down to their last out. I nodded, not saying a word. The bar had calmed down. Almost everyone there was listening closely to the broadcast. I had a disquieting feeling. It had been a long time since I had listened to a baseball game on the radio, and my Giants-hating blood was boiling over. I now knew for sure that it was, in fact, straightforward hatred as opposed to some kind of perverse affectation.

  “I can’t stand them,” I said in a low voice.

  Sensei’s eyes opened wide. “How can you be Japanese and hate the Giants?!” he murmured.

  “What kind of prejudice is that?” I asked, just as the Tigers’ last batter struck out. Sensei stood up from his chair and raised his glass high. Over the radio, they announced the end of the game, and the bar started bustling again. Suddenly, orders for drinks and food came from every direction, the owner replying to each one with a gruff acknowledgment.

  “They won, Tsukiko!” Sensei beamed and moved to fill my cup with saké from his own bottle, which was rather unusual. We had established a practice of never encroaching on each other’s food or drink. We ordered on our own. We poured for ourselves. And we paid separately. We had been doing it this way all this time. But here was Sensei coming over to pour me his saké, to break our tacit agreement. And it was all because the Giants had won. It was far too soon for me to have Sensei so capriciously endanger the comfortable distance that existed between us. Those fucking Giants.

  “So what?” I said very quietly as I tried to move my cup away from Sensei.

  “Nagashima’s a great manager, isn’t he?” Sensei still managed to deftly pour his saké into my fleeing cup, without spilling a drop. Quite well done.

  “Fortunately that’s fortunate,” I said, turning aside and putting down the cup of saké without drinking it.

  “Tsukiko, that’s a strange thing to say.”

  “Unfortunately that’s unfortunate.”

  “The pitcher played well, too.” Sensei was laughing.

  He’s laughing—what a jerk, I cursed to myself. Sensei had a huge grin on his face. And Sensei, who was always so calm and composed, was laughing heartily.

  “Can we stop talking about it?” I said, staring at Sensei. But he wouldn’t stop grinning. And there was something curious playing at the corners of his mouth. It was like the glimmer of delight in the eyes of a young boy as he squashes little ants.

  “No, I will not stop talking about it, most definitely not!”

  What was he saying? Sensei knew that I hated the Giants, and here he was, gloating. He was most definitely gloating.

  “The Giants, they’re all fuckers,” I said, spilling the entire cup of saké that Sensei had poured me onto an empty plate.

  “‘Fuckers’?! Such language from a young lady!” Sensei replied, having regained his perfect composure. He stood up even straighter than usual and drained his cup.

  “I am not a young lady.”

  “Pardon me.”

  Disquiet filled the air between Sensei and me. Sensei did have a point. After all, the Giants had won. Eventually, without saying a word, we each went back to pouring our own drinks. We didn’t order anything to eat, we simply kept on pouring. At the end of the night, we were both quite drunk. Maintaining our silence, we each paid our bill, left the bar, and went our respective ways home. And ever since then, we haven’t spoken.

  WHEN I THOUGHT about it, Sensei was the only person I spent any time with.

  For a while now, there hadn’t been anyone besides Sensei with whom I had sat and had a drink, or gone for a walk, or seen anything interesting.

  When I tried to think whom I spent time with before I became friendly with Sensei, no one came to mind.

  I had been alone. I rode the bus alone, I walked around the city alone, I did my shopping alone, and I drank alone. And even when I was with Sensei now, I didn’t feel any different than when I did these things on my own. It seemed, then, that it didn’t really matter whether or not I was with Sensei, but the truth was, doing these things with him made me feel proper. “Proper” is perhaps a strange way to put it. It was more like the way I felt about leaving the extra band, the obi, that sometimes came on a book jacket intact after I bought it, rather than throwing it away. Sensei would probably be angry if he knew I was comparing him to the band on a dust jacket.

  When I saw Sensei at the bar and we pretended not to know each other, it felt as distressing as if the ripped-off band and book were lying strewn about on the ground. But it would have been too wearisome to attempt to restore the level of comfort we had. No doubt Sensei felt the same way. And so we just went on ignoring each other.

  I HAD TO go to Kappabashi for work. There was a strong wind that day. I was wearing a light jacket but I was still cold. It wasn’t a plaintive autumn wind, but rather a rough wind, calling winter to mind. Kappabashi is filled with wholesale dealers of household goods and tableware. There are pots and kettles, plates and bowls, and all sorts of small kitchenware. After I finished my work errands, I walked around, window-shopping. One store had copper pots that were nested inside each other, smaller and smaller versions of the same pot piled up one on top of the next. The front of another store was decorated with huge earthenware pots. Yet another had spatulas and ladles, arranged by size. There was a cutlery store. Kitchen knives, vegetable knives, sashimi knives—all of them were displayed, without their handles, inside the glass door. There were nail clippers too, and floral shears.

  Attracted by the gleaming blades, I went into the store. In one corner was an assortment of graters. There were dozens of graters of different sizes, grouped together by the handles, with a little piece of cardboard that said GRATERS ON SALE attached to each bunch with a rubber band.

  “How much is this?” I held up a small grater and asked the sales clerk.

  “One thousand yen,” she answered. The sales clerk was wearing an apron. “Sales tax included, it’s exactly ¥1,000.” When she said, “sales tax,” it sounded like “tales sax.” I paid with a thousand-yen note and she wrapped it up for me.

  I already had a grater. Kappabashi was the kind of place where I couldn’t resist buying something every time I came. On one trip, I bought a huge iron pot. I had thought it would be useful to have when I cooked for a lot of people, but when did I ever have that many people at my apartment? And even if I did, I hadn’t considered that I wouldn’t know what to make in a big pot that I wasn’t accustomed to cooking with. And so it sat, unused, in the back of the kitchen cupboard.

  I had bought the new grater because I wanted to give it to Sensei.

  I had started to miss Sensei while looking at the brilliant knives. As I gazed at the blades, so sharp that touching them would draw blood instantly, the desire to see Sensei grew. I had no idea why the gleam of the knives elicited such a feeling, but I missed him intensely. I was seized by the thought of buying a kitchen knife and bringing it to Sensei at home, but a big knife seemed ill-matched for that house. Somehow it didn’t suit the dimness and dampness of the atmosphere there. But the fine-toothed grater was just right. And at exactly ¥1,000, it was perfect. If I were to spend ten times that, and Sensei still ignored me, I would be angry. I didn’t think he would be so fickle, but then again, he was a Giants fan. There was no way that I could genuinely trust what he might do.

  NOT LONG AFTER that, I ran into Sensei at the bar.

  As before, Sensei pretended that he didn�
�t know me. And I too couldn’t help but respond in turn.

  We were at the counter, two seats away from each other. In between us, a man drank alone while he read the newspaper. On the other side of the newspaper, Sensei ordered yudofu. I ordered yudofu as well.

  “It’s cold outside, isn’t it?” the bartender said, and Sensei nodded. He may have replied softly, “Yes, it is,” but I couldn’t hear over the rustling of the newspaper.

  “It got chilly all of a sudden,” I said over the man with the newspaper, and Sensei cast a glance in my direction. Well, well . . . , his expression seemed to say. It would have been the perfect opportunity to nod or smile at him, but I could not bring myself to do so. I quickly looked away. On the other side of the man with the newspaper, I could feel Sensei slowly shifting, his back now to me.

  The tofu arrived, and I ate at the same pace as Sensei. I drank at the same pace as him, and I got drunk at the same pace. Since both of us were feeling tense, it took longer than usual for the alcohol to take effect. The man with the newspaper made no move to leave. And Sensei and I, we sat drinking on either side of him, each looking the other way and feigning composure.

  “The Japan Series is over, huh,” the man said to the bartender.

  “Soon it’ll be winter.”

  “I don’t like the cold, you know.”

  “But it’s a good time for stew.”

  The man and the bartender chatted agreeably. Sensei turned his head, as if to look at me. I could feel his gaze becoming more and more insistent. Cautiously, I turned to face him.

  “Would you like to come sit over here?” Sensei said in a low voice.

  “Yes,” I replied, my voice also low.

  The seat on the other side of the man with the newspaper, next to Sensei, was empty. I told the bartender that I was moving. I picked up my saké bottle and cup and changed seats.

  “Thanks,” I said, and Sensei murmured something almost inaudibly in response.

  And then, both of us still facing forward, we each resumed drinking our own saké, together.

  AFTER WE PAID our separate checks, we parted the shop curtain and stepped outside. It wasn’t as cold as I expected, and stars were twinkling in the sky. We had finished drinking later than usual.

  “Sensei, here,” I said, holding out the package, which was now wrinkled from being carried around for a while.

  “What is it?” Sensei took the bundle, placing his briefcase on the ground and carefully unwrapping it. The small grater emerged. It glimmered in the pale light that shone through the shop curtain. It gleamed even more brightly than it had in the shop in Kappabashi.

  “It’s a grater, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is it for me?”

  “Of course.”

  It was a brusque exchange. Which was just like our usual conversation. I looked up at the sky and scratched the top of my head. Sensei carefully rewrapped the grater and put it in his briefcase, then straightened and started walking.

  I counted stars as I walked. I counted them, looking up at the sky and trailing behind Sensei. When I reached eight, Sensei said suddenly, “Plum blossoms, fresh shoots, prepared at Mariko’s inn, with grated yam soup.”

  “What is that?” I asked.

  Sensei shook his head and lamented, “You don’t know your Basho either?”

  “That was Basho?” I asked again.

  “Yes, it ’s Basho. I taught you his poetry, a long time ago,” he said. I had no recollection of learning that haiku. Sensei started walking faster.

  “Sensei, you’re walking too fast,” I said to his back, but he didn’t respond. I deliberately repeated the strange words with a hint of irritation: “Grated yam soup prepared at Mariko’s inn.”

  Sensei kept walking for a moment. Then he stopped, and without turning around, he said, “We should make grated yam soup together sometime. Basho’s poem is a spring haiku, but the yams are delicious right now. I can use the grater and, Tsukiko, you can grind them with a mortar and pestle, if you don’t mind.” His voice was the same as always, though he still stood in front of me, without turning to face me.

  I continued to count stars, following along behind Sensei. I was up to about fifteen when we got to the place where we went our separate ways.

  “Goodbye,” I waved.

  Sensei waved back and said, “Goodbye.”

  I watched his back as he left, and then I headed to my own place. By the time I got home, I had counted twenty-two stars, including even the tiny little ones.

  Mushroom Hunting, Part 1

  WHAT ON EARTH was I doing, wandering around a place like this?

  It was Sensei’s fault—after all, he was the one who first starting talking about mushrooms.

  We had been sitting at the counter in the bar, the air that evening filled with autumn briskness, when Sensei, his posture perfect as always, said cheerfully, “I love mushrooms.”

  “Matsutake mushrooms?” I asked, but he shook his head.

  “Matsutake are fine, of course, but . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “Assuming that ‘mushrooms’ refers to matsutake is as simplistic as deciding that ‘baseball’ means the Giants.”

  “But don’t you love the Giants, Sensei?”

  “I do, but I’m perfectly aware that, objectively, baseball is not only about the Giants.”

  The quarrel that Sensei and I had over the Giants was still quite recent, and both of us were now extremely cautious when it came to baseball.

  “There are many varieties of mushrooms.”

  “I see.”

  “For instance, you can pick murasaki shimeji mushrooms and roast them on the spot. Drizzled with soy sauce—my goodness, so delicious!”

  “Yes.”

  “And iguchi mushrooms are quite savory as well.”

  “I see.”

  As our conversation went on, the owner of the bar had poked his head out from his side of the counter.

  “You know a lot about mushrooms, sir!”

  Sensei gave a slight nod. “Oh, not much at all,” he said, although his demeanor seemed to suggest that he knew quite a bit.

  “I always go mushroom hunting this time of year,” the owner said, craning his neck. He gestured toward Sensei and me with his nose, like a mama bird feeding her chicks.

  “I see,” Sensei replied in the same vague way that I often did.

  “Well then, sir, since you like them so much, would you like to come along with me on this year’s mushroom hunt?”

  Sensei and I exchanged glances. Despite the fact that we came to this bar almost every other night, the owner had never once treated us like regulars or made a point of making friendly conversation. Rather, it was the kind of place where everyone was treated like a new customer. And now, suddenly, the owner had invited us “to come along” with him.

  “Where do you do this mushroom hunting?” Sensei asked.

  The owner craned his neck even further. “Around Tochigi,” he answered. Sensei and I exchanged glances once again. The owner awaited our reply, his neck still outstretched. At the same moment that I wondered aloud, What do you think . . . ? Sensei responded, Let’s go. Somehow, just like that, it was decided that we would go mushroom hunting in Tochigi via the owner’s car.

  I KNOW ABSOLUTELY nothing about cars. Neither does Sensei. The bar owner’s car was white and boxy, unlike the sort of streamlined cars that you often saw these days in the city. This car was squarish and outdated, and somewhat austere, the kind that was common more than ten years ago.

  The plan was to meet up outside the bar at six in the morning on Sunday. So I set my alarm for 5:30 AM and, without even washing my face, grabbed the musty old rucksack that I had dug out from the back of my closet the night before as I left my apartment. The sound of the key as I locked the front door echoed unpleasantly in the morning air. I couldn’t stop myself from yawning repeatedly as I headed for the bar.

  Sensei had already arrived. He stood there
perfectly straight, his briefcase in hand, as always. The trunk of the car was open wide, and the bar owner’s upper body was thrust inside.

  “Is that equipment for hunting mushrooms?” Sensei asked.

  “No,” the owner replied, without changing position. “I’m bringing this stuff to my cousin’s place in Tochigi.” His voice reverberated from within the trunk.

  The things he was bringing to his cousin’s place in Tochigi consisted of several paper bags and one long, rectangular package. Sensei and I both peered over the owner’s shoulder. A crow cried from atop a utility pole. Caw, caw, caw, caw, it called, sounding just like a crow. Its voice seemed a bit more carefree than when I heard crows during the daytime.

  “These are Soka senbei and Asakusa nori,” the owner said, pointing at the paper bags.

  “I see,” Sensei and I replied in unison.

  “And this is saké.” He pointed at the long package.

  “Yes,” Sensei said, his briefcase hanging straight down. I said nothing.

  “My cousin, he really likes Sawanoi saké.”

  “As do I,” Sensei said.

  “It’s great. But my bar serves Tochigi saké.”

  The owner seemed much more relaxed than when he was at the bar. He looked at least ten years younger. Hop in, he said, opening the rear door and leaning halfway into the driver’s seat to start the car. Once the engine caught, he extricated himself from the front seat and went to close the trunk. He made sure that Sensei and I were settled into the backseat and walked a full circle around the car, then stood there smoking a cigarette before getting in to the driver’s seat. He yanked on his seatbelt and slowly stepped on the accelerator.

  “Thank you so much for inviting us today,” Sensei called out formally from the backseat.

  The owner swiveled around, beaming at us. “Let’s take it easy.” He had a nice smile. But he still had his foot on the gas pedal and the car continued to inch forward while he was completely turned around.

  “Um, ahead of you,” I murmured, but the owner merely craned his neck in my direction. “Huh?” he asked. Still facing us, he made no effort to glance in front of him. All the while the car continued to glide forward.