But since Shimamoto had stopped coming to see me, I was stuck on the airless surface of the moon. If she was gone forever, no one remained to whom I could reveal my true feelings. On sleepless nights I’d lie in bed and replay over and over in my mind that scene at the snowy Komatsu Airport. Recall it enough times, and the memories would start to fade. Or so I thought. The more I remembered, the stronger the memories became. The word “Delayed” flashing on the flight information board; outside the window, the snow coming down hard. You couldn’t see more than fifty yards. On the bench, Shimamoto sat still, hugging herself tight. Her navy pea coat and muffler. Her body with its mixed scent of tears and sadness. I could smell that scent. Beside me, in bed, my wife breathed quietly, asleep. She knows nothing. I closed my eyes and shook my head. She knows nothing.
The abandoned bowling alley parking lot, my melting snow in my mouth and feeding it to her. Shimamoto in the airplane, in my arms. Her closed eyes, the sigh from her slightly parted lips. Her body, soft and limp. She wanted me then. Her heart was open to me. Yet I held myself back, back on the surface of the moon, stuck in this lifeless world. And in the end she left me, and my life was lost all over again.
Sometimes I’d wake up at two or three in the morning and not be able to fall asleep again. I’d get out of bed, go to the kitchen, and pour myself a whiskey. Glass in hand, I’d look down at the darkened cemetery across the way and the headlights of the cars on the road. The moments of time linking night and dawn were long and dark. If I could cry, it might make things easier. But what would I cry over? Who would I cry for? I was too self-centered to cry for other people, too old to cry for myself.
Autumn finally arrived. And when it did, I came to a decision. Something had to give: I couldn’t keep on living like this.
13
In the morning after dropping off my daughters at nursery school, I went to the pool and swam my usual two thousand meters. I imagined I was a fish. Just a fish, with no need to think, not even about swimming. Next I showered, changed into a T-shirt and shorts, and started pumping iron.
Then I headed to the one-room flat I used as an office and set to checking the account books, figuring my employees’ pay, working on the plan for remodeling the Robin’s Nest the following February. At one, as usual, I went home and had lunch with my wife.
“Honey, I had a call from my father this morning,” Yukiko said. “Busy as always. He said there’s this stock that’ll go through the roof, and we should buy as much as we could manage. Not your run-of-the-mill stock tip, he said, but something extra special.”
“If it’s going to earn that much, he shouldn’t tell us about it but should keep it to himself. Wonder why he didn’t.”
“He said this was his personal way of saying thanks to you. He said you’d understand what he meant. Do you? He’s letting us have his share, you see. He said to invest all the money we have and not to worry, because this stock was hot. If somehow it didn’t turn a profit, he’d make sure we didn’t lose a penny.”
I rested my fork on my plate of pasta. “Anything else?”
“Well, he said we had to move quickly, so I called the bank and had them close out our savings accounts and send the money to Mr. Nakayama at the investment firm. So he could buy the stock. I was only able to scrape together about eight million yen. Maybe I should have bought even more?”
I drank some water. And tried to find the right words. “Before you did all that, why didn’t you ask me?”
“Ask you?” she said, surprised. “But you always buy the stocks my father tells you to. You’ve had me do it any number of times, haven’t you? You always tell me to just go ahead and do what I think is right. So that’s what I did. My father said there wasn’t a minute to lose. You were at the pool and I couldn’t get in touch with you. So what’s the problem?”
“It’s all right,” I said. “But I want you to sell all the stock.”
“Sell it?” She screwed up her eyes as if blinded by a glaring light.
“Sell all the stock you bought and put the money back in our savings accounts.”
“But if I do that we’ll have to pay a lot in transaction fees.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “Just pay it. I don’t care if we end up losing. Just sell everything you bought today.”
Yukiko sighed. “What happened between you and Father? What’s going on?”
I didn’t answer.
“What happened?”
“Listen, Yukiko,” I began, “I’m getting sick of all this. I don’t want to earn money in the stock market. I want to earn money by working with my own hands. I’ve done a good job up till now. You haven’t wanted for money, have you?”
“I know you’ve done a good job, and I haven’t complained once. I’m grateful to you, and you know I respect you. But still, my father’s doing this to help us out. Don’t you understand that?”
“I understand. Yukiko, do you know what insider trading is? Do you know what it means when somebody tells you there’s a one hundred percent chance you’ll turn a profit?”
“No.”
“It’s called stock manipulation,” I said. “Somebody inside a company manipulates the stock to rack up an artificial profit, then he and his pals split up the proceeds. And that money makes its way into politicians’ pockets or ends up as corporate bribes. This isn’t like the kind of stock your father urged me to buy before. That kind of stock probably was going to make a profit. That was just welcome information, nothing more. And most of the time the stock did go up, but not every time. This time is different. This stinks. And I don’t want to have anything to do with it.”
Fork in hand, Yukiko was lost in thought.
“How can you be sure this is a case of stock manipulation?”
“If you really want to know that, ask your father,” I said. “But I can tell you this: stock that’s guaranteed not to go down can only result from illegal deals. My father worked in an investment firm for forty years. Worked hard from morning to night. But all he left behind was a crummy little house. Maybe he just wasn’t good at it. Every night, my mother was hunched over the household account books, worried over a hundred or two hundred yen that didn’t balance. That’s the kind of family I was raised in. You said you can only come up with eight million yen. Yukiko, we’re talking about real money here, not Monopoly money. Most people ride to work every day, smashed together in packed trains, put in overtime, knock themselves out, and still couldn’t come near making that much in a year. I lived that kind of life for eight years, so I know. And there was no way I could make eight million yen. But you probably can’t picture that kind of life.”
Yukiko was silent. She bit her lip and stared hard at her plate. Realizing that I’d begun to raise my voice, I lowered it.
“You can blithely say that in half a month the money we invest will double. Eight million yen will turn into sixteen million. But something’s very wrong with that kind of thinking. I’ve found myself sucked into that mind-set and it makes me feel empty.”
Yukiko looked at me from across the table. As I resumed eating, I could feel something inside me shaking. Was it irritation or anger? I couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, I was helpless before it.
“I’m sorry. I should have minded my own business,” Yukiko said quietly, after a long silence.
“It’s okay. I’m not blaming you. I’m not blaming anybody.”
“I’ll call right now and have them sell every single share. Just stop being angry with me.”
“I’m not angry.”
Silent, I continued to eat.
“Isn’t there something you want to tell me?” Yukiko asked, looking straight at me. “If something is bothering you, tell me. Even if it’s something that’s hard to talk about. If there’s anything I can do, just name it. I’m only an ordinary person, and I know I’m completely naive about everything—including running a business. But I can’t stand to see you unhappy. I don’t want to see that pained look on your face. What is it you hat
e about our life? Tell me.”
I shook my head. “I have no complaints. I like my job, and I love you. All I’m saying is that sometimes I can’t keep up with your father’s way of doing things. Don’t get me wrong, I like him. I know he’s trying to help us out and I appreciate it. So I’m not angry. I just can’t understand who I am anymore. I can’t tell right from wrong. So I’m confused. But not angry.”
“You certainly look angry.”
I sighed.
“And you sigh all the time,” she said. “Anyhow, something’s definitely bothering you. Your mind’s a million miles away.”
“I don’t know.”
Yukiko kept her eyes on me. “There’s something on your mind,” she said. “But I have no idea what that is. I wish there was something I could do to help.”
I was struck by a violent desire to confess everything. What a relief that would be! No more hiding, no more need to playact or to lie. Yukiko, see, there’s another woman I love, someone I just can’t forget. I’ve held back, trying to keep our world from crumbling, but I can’t hold back anymore. The next time she shows up, I don’t care what happens: I’m going to make love to her. I’ve thought of her while I’ve masturbated. I’ve thought of her while I’ve made love to you, Yukiko… But I didn’t say anything. Confession would serve no purpose. It would only make us miserable.
After lunch, I returned to my office to continue work. But my mind, indeed, was a million miles away. I felt lousy, preaching to Yukiko like that What I said was all right. But the person who said it was all wrong. I’d lied to Yukiko, sneaking around behind her back. I was the last person who should take the moral high ground. Yukiko was trying very hard to think about me. That was quite clear, and consistent with the kind of person she was. But what about my life? Was there any consistency, any conviction to speak of? I felt deflated, utterly lacking the will to move.
I put my feet up on my desk and, pencil in hand, gazed listlessly out the window. From my office you could see a park. The weather was nice, and there were a number of parents with their children. The children played in the sandbox or slid down the slides, while their mothers kept an eye on them and chatted with other mothers. Seeing these little children at play reminded me of my own daughters. I wanted to see them, to once again walk down the street holding the two of them in my arms. I wanted to feel the warmth of their bodies. But thoughts of them led inexorably to memories of Shimamoto. Vivid memories of her slightly parted lips. Thoughts of my daughters were crowded out by the image of Shimamoto. I could think of nothing else.
I left my office and took a walk down the main street in Aoyama. I went in the coffee shop where Shimamoto and I used to rendezvous, and had some coffee. I read a book and, when I tired of reading, thought again of her. I recalled fragments of our conversations, how she’d take a Salem out of her bag and light it, how she’d casually brush back a lock of hair, how she tilted her head slightly as she smiled. Soon I grew tired of sitting there alone and set out for a walk toward Shibuya. I used to like to walk the city streets, gazing at the buildings and shops, watching all the people. I liked the feeling of moving through the city on my own two feet. Now, though, the city was depressing and empty. Buildings were falling apart, all the trees had lost their color, and every passerby was devoid of feelings, and of dreams.
Looking for an unpopular movie, I entered the theater and watched the screen intently. When the movie was over, I walked out into the evening city streets, went into a restaurant I happened to pass, and had a simple meal. Shibuya was packed with office workers on their way home. Like a speeded-up film, trains pulled into the station and swallowed up one crowd after another. It was right around here, I suddenly recalled, that I’d caught sight of Shimamoto, some ten years before, in her red overcoat and sunglasses. It might have been a million years ago.
Everything came back to me. The end-of-year crowds, the way she walked, each corner we turned, the cloudy sky, the department store bag she carried, the coffee cup she didn’t touch, the Christmas carols. Once again a pang of regret swept over me for not having called out to her. I had nothing to tie me down then, nothing to lose. I could have held her close, and the two of us could have walked off together. No matter what situation she was stuck in, we could have found a way out. But I’d lost that chance forever. A mysterious middle-aged guy grabbed me by the elbow, and Shimamoto slipped into a taxi and disappeared.
I took a crowded evening train back. The weather had taken a turn for the worse while I was watching the movie, and the sky was covered with heavy, wet-looking clouds. It looked like it was going to rain at any minute. I had no umbrella with me and was dressed in the yacht parka, blue jeans, and sneakers I’d set out in that morning when I went to the pool. I should have gone home to change into my usual suit But I didn’t feel like it. No matter, I’d decided. I could skip the necktie for once—no harm done.
By seven it was raining. A gentle rain, the kind of autumn drizzle that looked like it would last. As I usually did, I stopped by the remodeled bar first to check out how business was. The place had ended up pretty much as I had envisioned it. The bar was a much more relaxed, efficient place to work. The lighting was more subdued, and the music enhanced this mood. I had designed a small separate kitchen, hired a professional chef, and made up a new menu of simple yet elegant dishes. The kind of dishes that had no extra ingredients or flourishes but which an amateur could never master. They were intended, after all, as snacks to accompany drinks, so they had to be easy to eat. Every month, we changed the menu completely. It had been no easy task to find the kind of chef I had in mind. I finally did locate one, though it cost me, much more than I’d bargained for. But he earned his pay, and I was satisfied. My customers seemed pleased too.
Around nine, I borrowed an umbrella from the bar and headed over to the Robin’s Nest. And at nine-thirty, Shimamoto showed up. Strangely enough, she always appeared on quiet rainy evenings.
14
She wore a white dress and an oversize navy-blue jacket. A small fish-shaped silver brooch graced the collar of her jacket. The dress was simple in design, with no decorations of any kind, yet on her, you’d swear it was the world’s most expensive dress. She was more tanned than the last time I’d seen her.
“I thought you’d never come here again,” I said.
“Every time I see you, you say the same thing,” she said, laughing. As always, she sat down next to me at the bar and rested both hands on the counter. “But I did write you a note saying I wouldn’t be back for a while, didn’t I?”
“For a while is a phrase whose length can’t be measured. At least by the person who’s waiting,” I said.
“But there must be times when that word’s necessary. Situations when that’s the only possible word you can use,” she said.
“And probably is a word whose weight is incalculable.”
“You’re right,” she said, her face lit up by her usual smile, a gentle breeze blowing from somewhere far away. “I apologize. I’m not trying to excuse myself, but there was nothing I could do about it. Those were the only words I could have used.”
“No need to apologize. As I told you once, this is a bar, and you’re a customer. You come here when you want to. I’m used to it. I’m just mouthing off to myself. Pay no attention.”
She called the bartender over and ordered a cocktail. She looked closely at me, as if inspecting me. “You’re dressed pretty casually for a change.”
“I went swimming this morning and haven’t changed. I haven’t had time,” I said. “But I kind of like it. I feel this is the real me again.”
“You look younger. No one would guess you’re thirty-seven.”
“You don’t look thirty-seven, either.”
“But I don’t look twelve.”
“True enough,” I said.
Her cocktail arrived, and she took a sip. And gently closed her eyes as if listening to some far-off sound. With her eyes closed, I could once more make out the small line just
above her eyelids.
“Hajime,” she said, “I’ve been thinking about your bar’s cocktails. I really wanted to have one. No matter where you go, you can never find drinks like the ones here.”
“Did you go somewhere far away?”
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
“Something about you,” I replied. “A certain air. Like you’ve been gone for some time far away.”
She looked up at me. And nodded. “Hajime, for a long time I’ve….,” she began, but fell suddenly silent as if reminded of something. I could tell she was searching inside herself for the right words. Which she couldn’t find. She bit her lip and smiled once more. “Anyhow, I’m sorry. I should have got in touch with you. But I wanted to leave certain things as they are. Preserved, so to speak. Either I come here or I don’t. When I do come here, I do. When I don’t … I’m somewhere else.”
“There’s no middle ground?”
“No middle ground,” she said. “Why? Because no middle-ground things exist there.”
“In a place where there are no middle-ground objects, no middle ground exists,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“In a place where no dogs exist, there are no doghouses, in other words.”
“Yes; no dogs, no doghouses,” Shimamoto said. And she looked at me in a funny way. “You have a strange sense of humor, do you know that?”
As it often did, the piano trio began playing “Star-Crossed Lovers.” For a while the two of us sat there, listening silently.
“Mind if I ask you one question?”
“Not at all,” I said.
“What’s the deal with you and this song?” she asked. “Every time you’re here, it seems, they play that number. A house rule of some sort?”
“No. They just know I like it.”
“It is a beautiful song.”
I nodded. “It took me a long time to figure out how complex it is, how there’s so much more to it than just a pretty melody. It takes a special kind of musician to play it right,” I said. “Duke Ellington and Billy Strayhorn wrote it a long time ago. Fifty-seven, I believe.”
South of the Border, West of the Sun Page 13