by Riku Onda
That morning the Young Master awoke to a close, heavy feeling in the air as a result of the rising humidity. For several days in a row the minimum overnight temperature had not dropped below seventy degrees Fahrenheit, a sure sign that a low-pressure system was closing in.
He had been sweating unpleasantly since first thing in the morning and was disgruntled, a feeling that was aggravated by the clatter of noise as his children prepared for school, but upon being hit by a wall of stifling-hot air when he opened the door of the shop, a mood of gloom descended upon him.
The weather looked to be turning ugly very early on in the day.
His mother, who had gone out to collect her medicine from the neighbourhood clinic, came back complaining.
“The clinic’s closed today.”
“Oh? Is Dr Takano all right?”
“It completely slipped my mind he had an engagement today. He did tell me. He’s gone to a party given by an important doctor who was good to him at one time. I didn’t remember until I reached the entrance, and could have kicked myself for being such a scatterbrain. If only I’d remembered sooner.” She seemed more annoyed by her memory failure than the clinic being closed.
“The wind’s picking up. You’d better get on with the deliveries early today,” she said to him, smoothing down her hair.
The Young Master agreed, and decided to postpone the sorting he always did in the mornings so that he could do his rounds first.
Outside, people scurried about, busily preparing for the storm predicted to sweep through in the afternoon. Though it was not yet noon the sky was dark, and capricious gusts of wind buffeted the Young Master from all directions as he sat astride the delivery motorbike. Though it did not yet bring rain, the sticky, moisture-laden wind brought no relief, and if anything only seemed to increase the humidity. The Young Master’s shirt, which he had changed into just before leaving the shop, already clung stickily to his skin. He cursed under his breath. Then, something caught his eye and made him pause.
A yellow robe.
He had a flashback to the photograph in the temple of a monk walking straight towards him. It was him – the young man. Walking directly towards the Young Master, dressed in a yellow robe.
Automatically the Young Master slowed his motorbike and watched as the young man came towards him, unaware of being observed. He wore a black baseball cap and strode along briskly, looking downwards. What the Young Master had taken to be a robe was, in fact, a yellow raincoat. The young man was pallid, but handsome as always, and the sculptured features stood out in sharp profile more than ever on his lean face, while his youth and maturity had melded to such a degree that it was impossible to tell if he were young or old.
He projected an aura of cool stillness amid the flurry of activity on the streets ahead of the impending storm. And he did resemble a monk swathed in yellow robes. But this was only the impression of a moment’s observation. In less than no time the young man had disappeared behind the Young Master, from which point on his yellow swathed back grew smaller and more distant in the rear-view mirror.
The Young Master wondered where he was going as he followed the figure in the mirror. There was no time to think about turning around to give chase, however, as before he knew it the lights turned green, and he reluctantly continued with the deliveries.
By afternoon the wind had strengthened and was finally bringing rain. The Young Master paid close attention to warnings and weather updates on the radio. His wife and mother went outside to examine the shop front.
“Should we close the storm shutters now?”
“But it’s so humid… and it’ll be completely dark inside.”
Customers were few, and the number of people on the streets was only decreasing. Some shops were already closing up early for the day.
The image of a yellow raincoat stayed in the Young Master’s mind even as he busily sorted out delivery statements. In fact, it was true to say that the man in the yellow robe-like coat was the only thing on his mind.
Where was he going? Was he back in his flat by now? Maybe he was reading sutras in his room at this very moment.
“Ah, here comes the rain.”
He looked up at the sound of his wife’s voice to see the pavement outside the shop turn white as large drops of rain smashed against the ground.
“Goodness me, the windows are all shut, aren’t they? Oh dear, I think I left the bathroom window open.” The Young Master’s wife jumped up in answer to her own question and rushed into the house at the back of the shop, followed by her mother-in-law, who went to check too.
It crossed the Young Master’s mind that his father, who was out for the day with other retiree friends visiting the Yamanaka hot springs, would not be enjoying the hot outdoor spas in this weather.
The sound of the rain increased in volume until the radio next to the cash register became inaudible. All the while, however, there was a quiet, still space inside the Young Master’s head, where that cool young man walked in tranquillity, moving steadily, all alone, caged in by the rain.
Returning with a start to reality after his thoughts had drifted, the Young Master noticed that the radio was audible again and the rain had decreased in intensity. No doubt the cycle of torrential and light downpours would continue for some time to come.
“That was a close thing,” said the Young Master’s wife upon her return. “Luckily the rain didn’t blow inside. By the way, where’s the torch?”
“On the shelf under the stairs, I expect.”
“It’s broken. I changed the batteries, but it still doesn’t work. Remember the trouble we had after the blackout from that last lightning storm.”
“That’s right. I forgot. I suppose I’d better go and buy a new one now.”
“In this weather? Are you serious?”
“The rain’s eased off – it’ll be all right. I’ll get a bite of lunch while I’m at it. I’ve been rushing about since morning, and now I think of it, I haven’t had a thing to eat.”
“Don’t be gone too long.”
“It’s all right, don’t worry.”
Outside, the wind blew so hard his umbrella was useless, and he had to hold his glasses against his face as he made a dash for the electrical goods shop nearby. While the assistant wrapped up his torch, the Young Master thought about where to go for lunch, and decided on the soba restaurant. He would get a quick plate of cold soba noodles and hurry back home again.
Tucking his purchase under his arm he ventured back out onto the street, whipped by the uncomfortably damp wind. The landscape was drained of all colour. In the distance he thought he heard a siren that sounded like fire engines.
The soba restaurant was empty as he dived through the door. Unlike many other food establishments, it did not close in the hours between lunch and dinner, and customers could always count on it being open late afternoon.
“Welcome. Awful weather, isn’t it?” said the proprietor. A taciturn man by nature, this was an unusually loquacious greeting for him.
“The wind’s atrocious. I was soaked through in no time.”
“Here, use this,” said the man, thrusting a cotton towel at the Young Master, who gratefully accepted it to wipe his head and shoulders.
“Cold soba and a beer, please.”
“Everything okay?”
“We’re shutting up shop for the day. There are no customers in this weather, and it’ll only get worse.”
As he watched the proprietor open the bottle of beer, the Young Master could not help feeling that something was missing. Then it struck him that it was the absence of sound; there was no satisfying pop as the cap was removed from the bottle because it had been drowned out by the rain, which now fell harder than ever, producing a deafening din on the corrugated iron roof. Both men turned to look at the ceiling with exclamations of astonishment; the noise was so loud it was impossible not to react.
While nibbling on slices of boiled fish paste dipped in wasabi and sipping on his beer,
the Young Master noticed the sirens again. “I wonder what’s happened?” he remarked. “The fire engines and ambulances are out in force today.”
“Fire, maybe?”
“Would they need so many hoses in this rain?” He strained his ears, listening for the scream of sirens through the cacophony on the roof. There seemed to be no end; as soon as one faded into the distance, another could be heard following immediately behind. He wondered how many had been despatched. This evidence of others’ misfortune made him feel uneasy.
“What on earth is going on?”
“Hmm. Very strange,” said the proprietor, moving over to switch on a television that sat on a shelf close to the ceiling. He found no news, however, only a tedious repeat of an old drama series.
By the time the Young Master had eaten his noodles and drunk the tea to go with it, the rain had once again diminished in force. He glanced through the back window and saw the eight-fingered leaves of the paper plant outside bowing in the wind.
“Looks like the rain’s eased up. I’ll make the most of it to get home. Thanks.”
“Best get moving. Always welcome.”
The Young Master paid his bill and stepped out into the maelstrom again. He grimaced; though the rain had eased off slightly, it still had enough impetus when carried by the wind to pelt his face with stinging force. Then he froze as he became aware of the presence of someone else beside him, standing outside the restaurant. Turning his head, he saw the young man again staring at the scroll in the window case, the outline of his ash-grey silhouette etched in sharp profile as he stood there, oblivious to the rain beating down him. The Young Master felt a wave of déjà vu, as if a scene had been lifted from his imagination and made real.
How long had he been standing there? The yellow raincoat he had been wearing earlier was nowhere in sight. His slacks were black with wet and his white shirt was soaked through, with the lines of the undershirt beneath clearly visible. Rain streamed from the visor of his baseball cap.
He seemed unaware of being observed. Why is it he never notices me? the Young Master thought bitterly. Why am I always a bystander who can never enter his world? He felt a sudden, deep frustration.
The man gazed intently at the scroll, without moving a muscle, while the Young Master stood nearby, observing him side-on. He saw the young man’s lips move as he mumbled to himself. His expression was different from before; there was something new in it, something that to the Young Master looked like satisfaction mingled with relief, and also exhaustion. He was consumed by curiosity: where had the young man been since this morning? There had been no sign of him when he entered the restaurant earlier. And what had he been doing – in this rain – that could be the cause of so much satisfaction? The Young Master racked his brains and strained his ears to hear what the man was saying, but could make out nothing.
“I have my answer at last. This is my answer,” the young man mumbled under his breath, over and over.
8
THE FLOWER VOICE
The tobacconist’s grandson
I
Fami-res is a weird term, don’t you think?
No? I always do. Every time I hear it.
Uh, I know it’s short for family restaurant, but I always hear family-less. You know, no family. Like people say sex-less.
Lots of people use family restaurants for work. They’re handy for business meetings or lunches or whatever, because of their big tables and good lighting.
But you don’t see real families eating here. I reckon real families only come to places like this at certain times. When it’s late – like now – the only other people you see are loners, or parents and kids with something going on, or students, you know… the family-less. Only people with some kind of defect or families that don’t make the grade as a regular family are here at this hour. Look around. See the distribution? Like dim spots under the bright lights.
Fami-res customers don’t smile.
Uh, I noticed that a while ago. They know waiters smile because it’s in the manual. It’s not really for customers. Same way customers don’t come here because they wanna be in a fami-res. They’re killing time, or don’t wanna be home alone, or just want a change of scene. This place isn’t their first choice, but it’ll do. Staff and customers go along with that, in their own way. Nobody tries to put on a different face, or pretend they’re happy or whatever. Every person brings their life with them to the table.
But I suppose, if you look at it like that, maybe fami-res is the right term, strangely enough.
II
Yeah, I was married once.
If I’m honest, not because I thought it was necessary.
Nah, wasn’t anything wrong with her. Wasn’t her fault at all. In fact, she was a really great gal. Never made any fuss about compensation, though I was the one who ended it, and she had every right to. I guess deep down she wanted to finish it too.
But I don’t know… I just couldn’t see any reason for us to be together.
Uh, people have all sorts of reasons to live together. Someone to talk to every day, a roof over their head, social pressures, a carer for their old age. Loneliness. Wanting to be useful. None of that felt relevant.
Towards the end, I used to think why is this woman here? Every time I looked at her. She wasn’t annoying, or a pain to be with – nothing like that. It was a straight question, simple as that. Why is this woman here? Why does she occupy the same space as me?
I think she cottoned on to it.
She told me she couldn’t stand the way I looked at her. Said I had no idea how cruel I was, like I was denying her existence or something, and that’s why it really hurt. But she knew I didn’t mean it intentionally, and I think she thought that was even more inhuman.
That’s what she told me when we separated, anyway. But I suspect she was glad to leave.
Yeah, I bet you’re wondering why I got married in the first place. I think because everybody else was getting hitched too. I had this idea that I should try it once. And my married friends seemed to be having a good enough time. When all your buddies are doing it you start to panic about being left behind, don’t you?
Housework doesn’t bother me. If anything, it’s easier to do it myself the way I like it done.
You know, at bottom, no offence, but I think women are insensitive and lack finesse. That’s not discrimination. I mean, it’s hard work to give birth and raise a kid, so women have to be like that – they’re built to just push on with things, no matter what. Men are essentially more uptight about everything, in my opinion.
But hey, why discuss this now? Is that what you want? I’m sure you didn’t come to hear me talk about this kind of thing.
Yeah, sadly I wasn’t a roaring success as an engineer. I liked tinkering with machines and making stuff, but I didn’t have any bright new ideas, or the drive and ambition to be an innovator. I’m in sales and planning now – generalist, comprehensive type of work. That pretty much suits me.
People say I lack ambition.
Uh, emotion, too. I have no delicacy, apparently.
It’s a shame I didn’t have more ambition as an engineer, or work for that matter. When I think about it, I’d still like to do that kind of work.
But as far as ambitions in life go, I still don’t get it.
Why should living in a super-deluxe condo, owning several foreign cars or building a second house be called success? What’s to be jealous of? The basic essentials of a house are the same for everybody. A bath, kitchen, toilet, place to sleep and place to relax. Sure, a garden or study increases the space or number of rooms slightly, but no matter how big a house or apartment, the basic format is the same. I really don’t see why luxury condos and apartments should be so different in price, even taking difference in floor space into account. And speaking of not understanding, Americans have no idea either. Their idea of success is a mansion with a pool, a flash car, foxy women, and parties flowing with wine and champagne. No art or imagination in tha
t.
Yeah, people often call me a cold fish. I don’t understand that either. If I did, I might have made a better go of things, I suppose.
But anyone close to me who hangs around a while ends up dead. Is that my fault? I sometimes wonder. Am I so cold and hard it gets to them too? Does it build up inside them till they can’t stand it any more?
Only six months after we split my ex-wife died. It was a car accident, but there were rumours it might have been suicide. I still don’t know.
There was another friend, too, from university. We were in the same club and good buddies for four years, but after he got a job he couldn’t get on with the people in the department he was assigned to. So he did himself in.
Thinking back though, the first person I ever knew who committed suicide was a guy I used to call Big Brother. When I was a kid, at the time of the murders.
I’d completely forgotten about that till you turned up.
III
Yeah, those murders. I still don’t think Big Brother did it.
But that’s because I was just a kid then, and even now I’m not perceptive about people, or good at saying the right thing.
I always felt uncomfortable when people spoke about him like he was a perverted evil killer and some kind of monster. It didn’t fit the image of the Big Brother I knew.
Why the name Big Brother?
Uh, I never even thought about it. He was always Big Brother to me. I had a real big brother, four years older, but I didn’t look up to him the same way. That guy was Big Brother, with a capital B. I couldn’t call him anything else.
When we heard he was behind the murders, my mum went half crazy. Actually, gloating was more like it. She was so smug, jabbering on to all the neighbours and journalists who came to our tobacco store. Going on about how she’d always known there was something strange about him, and how he was bound to cause trouble one day. It was embarrassing – I couldn’t stand it.