Sweet Bean Paste

by Durian Sukegawa

  He chose a selection and looked through them methodically. Every article contained medical terms that made the topic seem difficult, but he was able to glean enough by reading the more accessible parts and piecing all the information together.

  To begin with, he discovered that everybody currently living in sanatoriums around Japan was cured of the disease. There were no current patients. And in the unlikely case that there was an outbreak of Hansen’s, modern methods of treatment were capable of quickly achieving a complete cure with no further possibility of the patient being contagious to others. Moreover, the disease had an extremely low degree of infectivity, and apparently no Japanese medical staff had ever contracted it in the course of administering treatment. In the days of less advanced hygiene, however, when treatment methods were yet to be established, it was regarded as an incurable disease, and patients were therefore quarantined by law. They also suffered from discrimination because of side effects that caused parts of the body to drop off. But such symptoms were only evident in patients who had not received treatment until the disease was far advanced. With early and appropriate treatment, there were no permanent side effects.

  After skimming through once more, Sentaro shut down the computer. He had seen photographs that made him want to turn his eyes away, but the problem of Tokue weighed less heavily on him now. There were still sanatoriums, it was true, but no more patients, and most importantly, there were no carriers any more.

  Even if Tokue had suffered from this disease in the past, as the owner suspected, there should be no issue about it now. To say nothing of the fact that Tokue had said she got it when she was young. A long time would have passed since she was completely cured.

  He didn’t need to make Tokue leave. Although Sentaro was convinced of this now, he was still not sure how to handle the situation.

  Sentaro contemplated printing out some of the articles he’d read on the internet and showing them to the owner. The disease had been all but eradicated in Japan so it was simply not possible that Tokue could be a source of contagion decades after being cured. Should he point that out to her? He was not confident, however, that such a direct approach would cut any ice with her. Simply saying that, medically speaking, there was nothing to worry about, would not undo the damage done to Tokue’s fingers by the disease. And her fingers were what people saw. Sentaro had a feeling the owner would not change her mind about wanting Tokue gone.

  In which case, what should he do?

  It dawned on him that one way out might be to get Tokue to leave temporarily. It would be a stretch, to be sure, but he could tell her this had been a temporary position and ask her to leave, then ask her back when the timing was good, to continue teaching him how to make bean paste. Sentaro thought it through. He could smooth things over with the owner and do his best in the meantime to hone his own sweet bean paste making skills.

  But the more he thought about it, the less enthusiasm Sentaro had for the idea. He would just be going through the motions and could not think of any reason he could give Tokue as to why she must quit. Besides, he was the one who wanted to get away from the shop. Was it even necessary for him to stick around to deal with this problem?

  Sentaro continued staring at the dark ceiling, unable to reach a conclusion.

  13

  In the end Sentaro could not come to any decision.

  Unable to decide on any course of action regarding Tokue, or the future of the shop, he simply continued to work as usual. He said nothing to Tokue of the owner’s visit, or what he had read on the internet about Hansen’s disease. Nor did he change his attitude toward her in any way. Sentaro just went on as usual. However, anxiety lay heavy in the pit of his stomach. It was only a matter of time before the owner would demand an explanation, and he had to work out how he was going to placate her when the time came.

  It was all getting too much. Sentaro asked himself if he should quit too. He thought about abandoning everything, but then recalled his late boss’s square face. ‘I’ll take care of your money problems, come and help me out.’

  Sentaro had been working part-time in a pub after his release from prison when the big man had approached him with this offer.

  He had been imprisoned for a direct violation of the Cannabis Control Act. It was his first offence, but he had also been involved in trafficking. Although he wasn’t the prime culprit, he had ties with the fringes of an organized-crime group, from which he received certain financial benefits. His sentence reflected this, with no suspension, and he ended up staring at the walls for two years. During the course of a tough interrogation leading up to this, he never divulged the names of certain people. His former boss was one of them; a small-time, shady character who traded on his links with criminal gangs. But to Sentaro there was still human warmth in the man.

  ‘You did good, protecting me,’ he’d said the night Sentaro told him he would work at Doraharu. The two had been standing on the roadside, the big man weeping silently. Then they went drinking until morning.

  The boss suffered from cirrhosis due to long years of heavy drinking. His face was the same bronze colour as the dorayaki he cooked. In the end he vomited up blood while in the middle of pulling on his shoes to go to the hospital, and passed away on the spot from a burst vein. That was when Sentaro was in his third year of helping out at Doraharu.

  After the funeral, his wife pleaded with Sentaro to stay on at the shop. Her husband had told her to leave things to him if something happened, she said, clasping both his hands in hers and with tears in her eyes.

  It was true this couple had helped him during an unsettled period in his life after his release from prison. When Sentaro thought about it like that, leaving the shop before he’d finished paying back his debts was inconceivable. He understood that very well.

  He sighed as he stood at the griddle thinking it over. What a dilemma. It wasn’t as if he was a regular hardworking guy to begin with. What the hell should he do?

  Unable to find any answer, Sentaro simply kept on doing what he did every day: cooking pancakes for dorayaki, filling them with bean paste and smiling for the customers. And like his late boss, he drank, night after night.

  Time went by and the autumnal rain front arrived, bringing day after day of unending drizzle. Passers-by were now wearing warm cardigans and jackets, and carried umbrellas in one hand. The faded leaves on the tree outside the shop began dropping constantly.

  The change came suddenly. By the time Sentaro noticed, it was already significant.

  ‘Is it the rain, I wonder,’ he muttered with a concerned expression, as he and Tokue looked over the books together.

  They had to adjust the volume of beans they cooked. In fact, there was already a plentiful supply of bean paste in the refrigerator, and no need to cook any more. For some reason, sales had fallen over the last week, and the last three days in particular had been terrible.

  Tokue looked through the window up at the leaden sky and then at the road. ‘If only the weather’d clear up a bit.’

  ‘This weather is enough to get anyone down,’ Sentaro said, trying to dispel a niggling, unvoiced anxiety.

  The drop in takings was unmistakable. Slowly but surely sales had fallen, as if in tandem with the ever-shortening days.

  ‘Things will pick up when the rain stops,’ he said, as if reassuring himself.

  ‘Yes, all we need is a bit of blue sky.’

  In his heart Sentaro suspected there might be another reason. Given the busy period during the rainy season back in June, this explanation didn’t make sense. Customers had lined up in the rain, holding umbrellas, in spite of the heat and humidity, and sales had grown. So what was going on now? Ordinarily, this should be the start of the season for dorayaki, when the air began to feel cool on the skin.

  He also considered that perhaps the sluggish economy had something to do with it. There were permanently shuttered shops all around them on this street. Just last week a fishmonger had closed up, a business that had mana
ged to struggle along for many years. It was getting more and more deserted around here. Weather like this, when the rain set in and the sky was overcast day after day, was enough to make anyone depressed. Nobody would feel like buying anything, would they?

  ‘Come to think of it, I haven’t bought anything recently either.’ Tokue, who had been staring vaguely out the window, turned and looked at him as if to say, what are you talking about?

  ‘How about you, Tokue? Have you bought anything recently?’

  She still didn’t appear to grasp his train of thought and the significance of what she was being asked. ‘You mean go shopping?’ she answered.

  ‘Yeah. We aren’t selling much, but then I was thinking, well, we’re not buying anything either.’

  Tokue nodded, getting his meaning at last. ‘I don’t really go shopping,’ she murmured, and turned her back on Sentaro to retreat into the rear of the shop.

  That evening the owner came back, arriving after Tokue had left.

  She sat at the counter and looked over the books, saying little, then straightened up with a loud sigh.

  ‘Sentaro.’

  Sentaro also straightened up.

  ‘Didn’t I ask you to let that woman go as soon as possible?’

  Sentaro stood stiff and nodded.

  ‘I’ve been back several times, keeping my distance even though this is my own shop. You have a reputation to keep up, too, you know. That woman is always here, isn’t she? Tokue or whatever her name is. She’s still working here.’

  ‘But, in the sense you’re talking about…Tokue’s all right. Because she’s cured.’

  ‘If she’s cured why is she still in the sanatorium? Why haven’t you done anything about this?’

  ‘I, err…’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  Sentaro was stuck for words.

  ‘What? Haven’t you even asked by now if she’s got leprosy?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘What are you thinking of?!’ The owner’s voice vibrated shrilly.

  ‘Now, just a moment, madam.’

  ‘And what should I wait for? You’ve already kept me waiting all this time.’

  ‘Tokue was ill a long time ago, and it might’ve been Hansen’s disease, but she’s cured now – she’s the same as anyone else.’

  ‘She is not the same! Her fingers are crooked, aren’t they?’

  ‘That disease has been as good as eradicated in Japan. There’re no patients in the sanatoriums any more.’

  ‘What do you mean? Why should I believe you when you’re not a doctor or anything?’

  ‘Are you telling me to fire someone who’s not sick, just because she was in the past?’

  ‘This shop serves food and drink! We have an image to protect. Do you think we can have someone here who scares the customers away?’

  The owner put her hands to her angry red cheeks, then dropped them to her side.

  ‘I didn’t want to have to say this, but it’s thanks to this shop that you can survive, isn’t it? When you had your back to the wall, who was it that took care of things? Surely you don’t think Doraharu belongs to you, do you Sentaro? If you don’t fire that woman I have no choice but to ask you to leave. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘But…I, err…’

  ‘My husband started this shop. I am the owner now.’

  ‘Madam.’

  ‘I know. It’s not easy for you, either. But look at these figures. How could you do so well and then suddenly this happens? Could it be, by any chance, that rumours have spread about a diseased person working here? If so, this shop is done for.’

  ‘No. If that were the case I would have heard. It’s probably this long rainy season. Business is bad everywhere, and it just keeps on raining.’

  ‘Whatever. Just send her packing.’ The owner drew in a deep breath and pressed her lips tight. There was a long silence. Apparently, she was waiting for Sentaro to reply, but Sentaro said nothing, and she lost patience. ‘That’s my last word,’ she said, and stormed out of the shop.

  14

  Crickets chirped beneath the cherry tree. Footsteps clicked distinctly on the road at intervals as people came and went. The stars shone brightly on this quiet autumn night, visible again for the first time in days.

  The griddle was already cooling off but Sentaro still had sweat running down his face. ‘You won’t change your mind?’

  Tokue was sitting down. ‘No,’ she said with a shake of her head. ‘I came to this decision by myself. I’m almost at my limit.’

  ‘You could come in just once or twice a month?’

  ‘I don’t think…’

  ‘But I still haven’t learned everything I need to know about your sweet bean paste.’

  Voices filtered through the half-closed shutters. Probably school girls on their way home from after-school activities. A pair of legs in a short skirt appeared below the shutter. ‘Looks closed. Aw, that sucks.’

  ‘Sorry. We’re finished for today,’ Sentaro called out.

  He heard a grumble in reply and the sound of retreating footsteps.

  ‘That’s the girls who play tennis.’ A smile lit Tokue’s eyes for a second then she promptly hung her head again. Her clasped hands rested on the folded apron on her lap.

  ‘Those girls will feel the same as I do. I wish you’d come and visit sometimes,’ Sentaro pleaded.

  Tokue shook her head.

  ‘Why not, Tokue?’

  ‘I think the reason sales are down recently might be because of my past.’

  ‘Oh, I…I don’t think…’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘We don’t know that.’

  ‘Though I was cured more than forty years ago.’

  Then don’t quit, Sentaro wanted to say – thought he should say, in fact – but he saw the owner’s face in his mind and the words died on his lips. He said nothing.

  Tokue looked at him with concern. ‘Sentaro, it’s all right.’

  ‘No, I can’t get things right. It’s my fault too.’

  Tokue picked up the apron from her knees and gripped the hem with her bent fingers. ‘Why is it your fault?’ she asked.

  ‘Tokue?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t think I should have to ask you this, but your sickness…was it Hansen’s disease?’

  ‘Yes, it was. I should have told you before.’

  ‘Oh…’ Sentaro mumbled vaguely, but could say no more.

  ‘Once you get diagnosed that’s the end of your life. That’s how it used to be with this sickness.’

  Sentaro looked at Tokue’s fingers, clutching the hem of her apron.

  ‘Divine punishment, they called it. Some people even said it was punishment for sins in a previous life, you know. If somebody got it, the police and public-health officials were called in, and then there’d be full-on disinfecting. It was awful for families too. They were made to feel terribly ashamed.’

  ‘But you were cured, weren’t you?’

  Tokue nodded emphatically.

  ‘Yes, we got the medicine from America. But I still got these side effects in my fingers. Other people too.’

  ‘I read a bit about it. Were you really isolated? I mean, like…completely?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tokue raised one eyebrow. ‘So you did some research?’

  ‘Ah, yes, on the internet.’

  ‘Well, now, complete isolation. It meant we were never allowed outside those gates. It’s not so long since that law was abolished, you know.’

  ‘Sorry to harp on about this, but you don’t have the disease any more, do you?’

  ‘No. I was diagnosed a non-carrier forty years ago. But I still wasn’t allowed to go out into town like this. When I first got sick, I was only…’ Tokue’s voice trailed off. She pressed her lips together and brought the edge of the apron up to her eyes.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Tokue.’ Sentaro looked at the floor.

  ‘I was still only about the same age as those young girls that
come here.’

  At the thought of all she had gone through, Sentaro could not bring himself to look her in the face.

  ‘Tokue…’

  ‘I’ve been shut up ever since.’

  ‘You’ve been in a sanatorium all this time?’

  ‘Yes. Tenshoen.’

  So that was it. Sentaro realized he had heard the name before. He knew roughly where it was but had never been in the neighbourhood.

  ‘That’s quite a way from here, isn’t it? How did you get here so early before the buses start running?’

  ‘Oh, that was no problem.’

  ‘Surely not by taxi?’

  ‘I said it’s fine.’ Tokue smiled wanly.

  ‘You came by taxi…on that pay? I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I enjoyed every moment.’

  ‘You don’t—’

  ‘No, I mean it. There was a time when I’d given up all hope of ever going outside those gates into the world again. But now look at me. I could come here. I met so many people. All because you gave me a job.’

  Sentaro hastily shook his head. ‘You’re the one who helped me.’

  ‘Oh, get on with you, boss. I’m an old woman. With hands like this. And my face is half-paralyzed too. You took me on in spite of all that. And you let me talk with those sweet girls. I always wanted to do this kind of work, so I’m happy.’ Tokue dabbed her eyes with the apron. ‘In fact, I’ve been thinking about quitting. I’ve been feeling a bit weary recently. It’s good timing.’ She dipped her white-haired head low in a respectful bow. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘No, I’m the one who should thank you. For all you’ve done for me.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be off, then.’

  Still seated, Tokue turned to let her gaze travel all around the shop, letting it pause on the plate of reject pancakes. Then she refolded her apron, placed it on the kitchen counter, put her scarf in her bag and stood up.