Sweet Bean Paste

by Durian Sukegawa

  9

  Could they increase their sweet bean paste production?

  A few days later Sentaro sounded out Tokue. She gave no sign of surprise. Her response was to simply stare at him in silence for a while, and say, ‘Good for you.’ Her eyes creased in a smile.

  ‘I’ve got more customers than ever, thanks to you.’

  ‘Are you going to make more bean paste?’

  ‘Yes, soon.’

  ‘In that case I’d better help you.’

  Tokue gave no sign of displeasure about an increased workload. After discussing it they decided to increase production to ten-kilogram batches each time.

  ‘We’ll be even busier,’ Sentaro warned.

  ‘What of it, it’s a good thing.’

  ‘How’s your health? Will you be able to cope?’

  ‘You’ll do all the heavy work, won’t you, boss?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘In that case, why don’t we start today?’ Tokue rocked on her heels, like a young mother holding a baby on her hip.

  For the first time ever, Sentaro understood what it was to be truly under pressure at work. On busy days there was no time to even stretch as he stood in front of the griddle all day long, pouring batter onto the grill to cook the pancakes. In between he would see to customers, work the till, and fill the pancakes with sweet bean paste.

  As always, he did not take any regular day off, nor did he increase the days Tokue worked. Sentaro kept working, glued to the grill from early morning until night. And so the days went by. Daily takings were consistently good, even with the usual ups and downs.

  Before long the misty, drizzly days of the early summer rainy season arrived. Tiny droplets of moisture gathered on the gleaming, deep-green leaves of the cherry trees.

  While this may have been good news for the trees, it was not welcome to a confectioner. For Sentaro, who made fresh dorayaki without using preservatives, it signalled the arrival of a trying period. The coarse sweet bean paste used for dorayaki was susceptible to heat and humidity, and could spoil in as little as half a day in the worst conditions. Other types with a higher sugar concentration, such as that used in monaka, would keep better.

  Sentaro had to be extra careful with the pancakes as well. If he made too many at once and too much time went by before they were consumed, they became sticky and unusable. The only way to avoid this was to try and anticipate the number of customers and cook up small batches at a time. Everything was much more effort during the rainy season.

  Nevertheless, Doraharu was still on a roll, thanks to Tokue’s bean paste. Customers continued to queue outside the window even while holding an umbrella with one hand. During the same period in previous years there were so few customers the shop might as well have been closed. This year, however, the days went by in a busy blur for Sentaro.

  It was around this time that Sentaro began to get dizzy spells as he stood in front of the griddle. In addition to being rushed off his feet all the time, the oppressive summer heat was beginning to take its toll.

  The heavy, humid air peculiar to this time of year wormed its way into the shop through the window that was always open for customers. The air conditioner was running constantly, but since Sentaro was always standing next to the heat of the gas-lit griddle, dark patches of sweat stained his apron and clothes. He began to drink large volumes of water while cooking. His appetite naturally decreased and he stopped eating even so much as a sandwich from the convenience store. Still he continued to work without rest, as if possessed.

  Nor did the uncomfortable rainy season deter the customers. Finally there came a day when even the increased production was insufficient and Sentaro had to hang out the ‘Sold Out’ sign once more. He had never felt more tired and worn out in his life. Once back in his flat he collapsed on the kitchen floor and remained prone without moving for a long while. Only after downing copious amounts of whisky did he stretch out on his futon to sleep.

  The next morning saw him sitting slumped on a chair in the kitchen of Doraharu. A batch of bean paste that he had made himself was in the copper pot, steeping in syrup, and nearly ready. All he had to do was divide it up and mix a portion in with Tokue’s bean paste to make it go further. But Sentaro couldn’t move. Though he knew what he had to do next, his body would not respond. He sat there, frozen in the cool blast of air streaming from the air conditioner. It was too much effort even to move his fingers.

  That day, Sentaro did not open for business.

  At some point he fell asleep sitting up, and when he opened his eyes again the hands of the clock showed it was close to midday. He managed to lift himself from his seat finally but no matter how he tried, could not bring himself to open the shutters. His breathing came in shallow gasps as he wrapped up the bean paste. Before he could put it in the refrigerator he slumped into the chair once again.

  Finally gathering up the energy to move, Sentaro changed out of his work clothes and left the shop. Though it had been overcast in the morning when he arrived, a strong glare now reflected off the road surface. Flinching from the strong sunshine, Sentaro sought the shade of a cherry tree.

  A cicada chirruped and flew off.

  As he stood with both hands pressed against the rough bark of the tree, it was all he could do to remain upright. An uncomfortable sweat streamed from every pore in his body. Surrendering his weight against the trunk, he gazed up at the deep-green treetop and focused on keeping his eyes fixed on the leaves swaying in the wind.

  A flickering image of his mother’s face floated out from the shadow of the leaves. She had visited him when he was in prison, but had always remained silent, her face through the clear acrylic barrier looking more aged with each visit.

  All of a sudden Sentaro felt like weeping. With tears threatening to spill over, he headed for the road along the train line to avoid the shopping street where people might see him. Upon reaching the road he stopped and watched several trains go by. There seemed no way forward, or back. After a while he became scared of his thoughts in that place and set off walking toward a residential area.

  Bright sunshine poured down from a clear sky. In Sentaro’s mind the clarity of the day only highlighted his state of wretchedness. All the time he had ever squandered in his life seemed to be clinging to his footsteps, dragging him down. He felt as if he were a scrap of rubbish, drifting through one backstreet alley after another.

  Die, he thought he heard a voice whisper.

  By the time he returned to his flat he had wandered so long and so far he had no memory of where exactly he had been.

  He flopped down on the futon still laid out on the floor. His chest gave off a dull heat, as if the blood was pooling there.

  Die. Wouldn’t it be better to die?

  Sentaro felt himself sink and be drawn in by that voice. He was drowning, and his breath was shallow. He fell into a feverish dream. Gasping and drenched in sweat, he struggled in an unfamiliar place.

  10

  The phone was ringing.

  Sentaro lifted his head and saw light behind the curtains. The clock showed that it was eight in the morning. Sentaro couldn’t work out why the telephone was hounding him, and why the room was bright to begin with. The ringing persisted. He crawled over to the kitchen to pick up the receiver.

  ‘Boss, what’s wrong?’ Tokue was on the other end.

  Sentaro mumbled something vaguely and she asked again, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  He saw a flashback of railway tracks and felt cherry-tree bark under his palms.

  ‘Well, I…’

  His hazy mind started to turn. He had given Tokue a copy of the shop key in case of emergency. She must have opened up by herself and started work.

  ‘Did you oversleep? Or don’t you feel well?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He meant to say he would be there soon, but the words stuck in his throat. ‘I’m a bit under the weather,’ he came out with.

 
‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I think— I’m probably tired.’

  ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘I might have a rest today.’

  Tokue paused. ‘Well it’s no wonder, you’ve been working nonstop,’ she said. ‘That’s a good idea.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I already started cooking the bean paste, so I’ll leave when it’s done.’

  ‘Sorry. Will you be okay on your own?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. You worry about yourself. Why don’t you take two or three days—?’

  ‘I’ll be in tomorrow,’ he cut Tokue short. If he stayed away that long Sentaro felt he was likely to never go back. ‘When you’ve finished today’s batch, please go home.’

  ‘Yes, all right. I’ll do that, but…’ Tokue hesitated.

  ‘I’m sorry, just do as I ask please,’ Sentaro ordered and hung up before she could reply.

  The next morning Sentaro set out for Doraharu earlier than usual. When he arrived, however, he found the shutters already half-open and a sweet aroma in the air.

  ‘Tokue?’

  ‘Oh, boss.’

  ‘Tokue, what are you doing here so early?’

  ‘I thought I’d make the bean paste instead of you.’

  ‘You…what?’

  Sentaro could not absorb this: Tokue was here, starting work by herself, on a day when she was not scheduled to come in.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said with a nod.

  ‘How are you today?’

  Tokue looked up from the beans she was watching over as they boiled away in the pot, and flashed a smile at Sentaro.

  ‘I think I’m okay now.’

  ‘It’s not right you don’t take any time off,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, well, I’ll think about it.’

  Sentaro threaded his arms through the sleeves of his chef’s coat as he spoke, but when it came to doing up the buttons his fingers suddenly stopped. Yesterday on the phone Tokue had said that she was starting to make bean paste, which meant that there should be enough for today. So why was she here again this morning making more?

  ‘Tokue, didn’t you make bean paste yesterday? Where is it?’

  ‘Ah yes, yesterday, err…’

  She lifted her eyes from the pot but did not immediately look at Sentaro directly. Then she shrugged and turned to face him.

  ‘Well now, you see, I didn’t know what to do. I made the bean paste and was just sitting down for a little rest, when a customer arrived.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Yes, a customer came and, so…I had to open the shop.’

  ‘Huh? What?’ Sentaro’s head jerked forward in shock.

  ‘You opened the shop? But…how did you open the shutters?’

  ‘You know I never liked the shutters all closed up, so I just opened the bottom part, like you see now, and that’s when a customer called out to me.’

  ‘But you promised. You said you’d go home after finishing the bean paste.’ Sentaro felt the sweat forming in his armpits. ‘What about the pancakes?’

  ‘Oh, I cooked those too.’

  ‘You did what? You were able to cook them?’

  ‘Oh, I managed somehow. I’m sorry, boss.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for sorry.’

  Tokue put the wooden spatula down and pointed at the countertop.

  ‘I didn’t know how you do your books, so I just wrote how much I sold in there.’

  ‘Who asked you to—?’

  It was a simple table. Figures for the day’s takings and profit were recorded in the distinctive curling handwriting Sentaro knew. The numbers were impressive.

  ‘Did you do this all by yourself?’

  ‘It was very busy. Customers didn’t stop coming.’

  ‘And you really did this all alone?’

  ‘Yes, by myself. Oh, but the first customer helped with the shutters. And I asked the last customer to help me close them.’

  Sentaro felt like sitting down in shock. How had she managed it? What was her pancake batter like? She had handled all the money with those gnarled fingers…? What had the customers thought of that?!

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tokue repeated.

  ‘Ah…I’m just surprised, that’s all. You could’ve said something.’

  ‘But you would’ve said no, wouldn’t you?’

  Clearly she’d broken the rules, but Sentaro recognized he was in no position to reprimand her for it. Tokue shifted her grip on the wooden spatula and stood there stiffly, like a child who’s been scolded.

  ‘But, I can’t imagine…You must’ve been exhausted after selling all that.’

  ‘Yes. I was very tired.’

  ‘And then you came in early today.’

  ‘Yes. I was here early.’

  Unsure of what attitude he should adopt, Sentaro instead slapped his own cheek. Tokue flinched but Sentaro paid no heed and picked up the measuring cup.

  ‘Boss…’

  ‘That’s enough. How many kilograms of adzuki are we cooking today?’

  ‘Let me see…two kilograms of dried beans.’

  Sentaro did the sums in his head and poured the sugar for the syrup onto the scales.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why’d you do that? Were you trying to get yourself moving?

  ‘No, that’s not it.’ Sentaro didn’t understand himself why he’d slapped his own cheek.

  Tokue was in high spirits all that day. She chattered away while stirring the beans with the wooden spatula.

  ‘Boss, where are you from?’

  ‘Takasaki.’

  ‘Have you been in Tokyo ever since you left?’

  ‘Well, I’ve moved around a bit.’

  ‘Really? Lucky you,’ Tokue sighed in envy.

  ‘It’s not that great. I just sort of…bounced around.’

  ‘Is that so? Whereabouts?’

  ‘Oh, just the Kanto region.’

  ‘Well that’s not so bad, is it? I err…I lived in Aichi Prefecture when I was a child.’

  ‘Aichi?’

  ‘Yes. In real countryside. On the Iida Line out from Toyohashi.’

  Tokue lifted her eyes away from the beans – something she would ordinarily never do – and looked at Sentaro.

  ‘The cherry blossoms there were so beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, where did you say it was again?’

  ‘Ah, um…’ She hesitated. ‘There was a cliff, with a river at the bottom. And the slope from the cliff to the river was covered with cherry trees. I’ve never seen any as beautiful as those.’

  For some reason Tokue did not name the place.

  ‘Do you go back there sometimes?’

  Tokue shook her head. ‘No, I haven’t been back for decades.’ She turned her eyes back to the beans in the pot.

  ‘What kind of food do you like, boss? What’s the local specialty in Takasaki?’

  ‘Let me see…Daruma bento is about all I can think of. You know, the boxed lunches you can buy at the train station.’

  Sentaro smiled as he filled the stockpot with water for the syrup. Tokue sounded like a child. He was grateful just to pass the time answering her undemanding questions.

  ‘Daruma lunchboxes come in white or red,’ he said. ‘I wonder if it’s because there’s something different inside.’

  ‘I like the sound of station lunchboxes, and eating while you travel.’

  ‘What do you like to eat, Tokue? Food simmered in miso’s a specialty in Aichi, isn’t it? Or those flat kishimen noodles.’

  ‘We didn’t have anything so nice when I was growing up,’ she said, flapping her hands as if to wave away the very idea. ‘When I say countryside, I mean real country. We used to pickle cherry-blossom petals and put them in hot water to drink.’

  ‘Wow, sounds like a foreign country.’

  ‘Japan then and now are different countries.’

  Sentaro nodded and put the stockpot on the gas. ‘Anything and everything changes, doesn’t it?’<
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  ‘Like what?’ Tokue looked Sentaro up and down.

  ‘Like…me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well…I’m in debt. To the owner of this shop. The wife of my late boss.’

  ‘Oh, my.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. There was a time when I went off the rails a bit.’

  ‘You owe money? Are you sure you’re not being cheated?’

  ‘It’s okay. The boss took care of my debts. That’s why I’m here. I’m still repaying the money to his wife.’ Sentaro glanced at Tokue. ‘Keep your eye on the pot.’

  She hastily turned back to stare into the copper bean pot again. ‘But how did you get into debt?’

  Sentaro looked into the stockpot and saw tiny bubbles dancing on the bottom.

  ‘I’m embarrassed to say, but I didn’t always keep to the straight and narrow. I just bumbled along, not knowing what to do with my life, really. Whatever I did never worked out. At one time I wanted to be a writer. But I never write a word these days. I never became expert in dorayaki either. I’m just a waster.’

  ‘But you work hard now. You never take time off.’

  ‘Hah.’

  Tokue turned off the flame under the pot of beans but made no move to start rinsing. She stared at the boiled beans.

  ‘Let’s make a go of it together, you and me,’ she said, turning to look Sentaro in the eye. ‘I’ll help you.’

  The stockpot in front of Sentaro started to boil.

  ‘It’s okay. You do enough already. With you around I feel like I have an ally. Fate can be a tough deal.’ Sentaro went to pick up the cup of sugar.

  ‘Fate?’ Tokue’s voice was charged. ‘What do you mean? Don’t throw around words like fate, Sentaro.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Young people shouldn’t talk about fate.’

  Chastised, Sentaro looked at the floor.

  ‘I…there was a period when I couldn’t leave the same place for a long time,’ Tokue said, and quickly shook her head, as if the words that had slipped out were somehow distasteful. She began to fill the copper bean pot with water.

  ‘I’m sorry. I appreciate your concern.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too,’ she said, not meeting Sentaro’s eye. ‘Please forget about it.’