Hiromi Kawakami - The Briefcase

The moment I finished speaking, the third symbol stopped spinning. This last one matched up with the first two.

“Customer number 132 has just won a ‘Lucky Chance’! Con-gratulations!” An announcement came over the loud speaker, and Sensei’s machine began flashing wildly.

Without a second glance my way, Sensei remained completely focused on his machine. Quite out of character, his posture was now somewhat rounded. He launched the balls in rapid succession, and they were swallowed up by a large blooming tulip in the center. When that happened, the dish underneath the machine began to overflow with the clinking of pachinko balls. A parlor employee brought over a large square receptacle. Sensei opened the lever at the bottom with his left hand while still gripping the handle with his right hand. The containers were deftly switched, with attention being paid not to allow any more balls to fall into the tulip.

The larger square receptacle was soon full of balls.

“I guess that’ll be all,” Sensei murmured. When the container was filled just to the brim, the tulip closed and the machine suddenly fell silent. Sensei straightened his back once again and released his grip on the handle.

“So many of them!” I said, and Sensei nodded, still facing forward. He heaved a great sigh.

“Tsukiko, would you like to try?” Sensei turned around to ask. “It will be like sociological research.”

Sociological research, indeed. That was so utterly Sensei. I sat down at the machine next to Sensei’s. Now, buy some balls for yourself, Sensei advised, so first I bought a card and then tentatively inserted it in the machine to get ¥500 worth.

Following Sensei’s example, I sat up straight and tried my best at launching the balls, but none went in. Five hundred yen worth of balls were gone in no time. I took out my card again and bought more balls. This time I tried maneuvering the handle at various angles. Next to me, Sensei kept calmly launching balls. The symbols in the center remained still, yet a steady stream of balls going in the holes made them emit jingling sounds. The next ¥500 worth also gone, I stopped playing. The symbols on Sensei’s machine had started spinning again.

“Will they match up again?” I asked, but Sensei shook his head.

“Most surely not. The odds must be one in a thousand, or more.”

Just as he predicted, the symbols lined up haphazardly. Checking to see that the trickle of balls flowing out while he played was now about even with the number of balls that he was using, Sensei stood up. Picking up the full container without effort, he headed toward the counter. After the number of balls was counted for him, Sensei walked around the corner that was decorated with prizes.

“You’re not exchanging them for money?” I asked, and Sensei stared at me.

“Tsukiko, you seem to know a lot for someone who doesn’t play pachinko.”

Yes, well, it’s all vicarious, I replied. Sensei laughed. Nevertheless, I would have said that pachinko prizes meant chocolate, but in fact, there were all sorts of things available, from electric rice cookers to neckties. Sensei intently examined each prize. He finally settled on a desktop vacuum in a cardboard box from behind the counter. He exchanged his remaining winnings for chocolate.

HERE, TAKE THE chocolate. Out in front of the parlor, Sensei held out the dozen or so chocolate bars to me.

Sensei, you keep some. I fanned out the bars like a hand of cards when playing old maid, and Sensei took three. Did you play pachinko with Ms. Ishino as well? I asked, nonchalant.

What? Sensei said, tilting his head. Tsukiko, weren’t you the one who went off with some young man? he retorted.

What? This time it was I who tilted my head.

Well done, Sensei. You’re very good at pachinko, I said.

Sensei made a sour face. One mustn’t gamble—it’s no good—but I do enjoy pachinko. As he said the words, he carefully adjusted the box with the desktop vacuum cleaner under his arm.

Walking side by side, Sensei and I returned to the shopping district.

Why don’t we get a quick drink at Satoru’s?

That sounds good.

Don’t you have a date tomorrow?

That’s all right.

Are you sure?

Yes, I’m sure. We mumbled between ourselves.

It’s all right, I repeated to myself as I sidled up to Sensei.

The young leaves had grown into a thick verdure. Sensei and I walked slowly under a single umbrella. Occasionally, Sensei’s arm would touch my shoulder. Sensei held the umbrella straight up high.

“I wonder if Satoru’s place is open yet,” I mused.

Sensei replied, “If not, we can just walk a bit.”

“Yes, let’s walk then,” I said, looking up at Sensei’s umbrella.

“Onward, then,” Sensei said, echoing the decisiveness of the march that had been playing inside the pachinko parlor.

The rain had softened to a drizzle. A raindrop fell on my cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand as Sensei looked on disapprovingly.

“Tsukiko, don’t you have a handkerchief?”

“I do, but it’s too much trouble to get out.”

“Young ladies these days…”

I lengthened my gait to match Sensei’s robust stride. The sky was brightening and birds had started chirping. The rain was letting up, but Sensei still gripped his umbrella tightly. As he held it aloft, the two of us kept a steady pace, walking along the shopping district.

TAKASHI KOJIMA INVITED me to go on a trip with him.

“I know an inn that serves the most amazing food,” he said.

“Amazing food?” I parroted, and Kojima nodded. His expression was like an earnest schoolchild’s. When he was young, he must have looked quite adorable with a botchan haircut, I mused.

“Right about now, the ayu fish is probably in season.”

Hmmm, I replied. A classy inn with delicious cooking. That seemed like just the kind of thing Kojima would suggest.

“What about going to check it out, before the rainy season starts?”

Being with Kojima always brought to mind the word “grown-up.”

What I mean is, when Kojima was in elementary school, he was a child, of course. A suntanned kid with thin little shins. In high school, Kojima had seemed like a sprouting boy, on the verge of casting off his boyhood skin and becoming a young man. By the time he got to college, he must have been a full-fledged young man, the epitome of youth. I can just imagine. Now, having reached his thirties, Kojima was a grown-up. No doubt about it.

His behavior was commensurate with his age. The passage of time had been evenly distributed for Kojima, and both his body and mind had developed proportionately.

I, on the other hand, still might not be considered a proper grown-up. I had been very much the adult when I was in elementary school. But as I continued on through junior high and high school, on the contrary, I became less grown-up. And then as the years passed, I turned into quite a childlike person. I suppose I just wasn’t able to ally myself with time.

“What happens after the rainy season starts?” I asked.

“Well, we’d get wet,” Kojima replied succinctly.

“Not if we used umbrellas,” I said, and he laughed.

“Listen, I’m asking you to go on a trip with me, just the two of us. Did you get that?” Kojima peered into my face as he spoke.

“Ayu fish, huh?” I was well aware of the fact that Kojima was inviting me on a trip. I also knew that it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to go away with him. But then why was I trying to dodge the question?

“They catch the ayu in a nearby river. And the local vegetables are also great,” Kojima said leisurely. Even though he knew I was hedging, he didn’t seem at all concerned; rather, his manner was calm and unhurried.

Kojima went on with his explanation: “Just-picked cucumbers, lightly chopped and dressed with pickled plums. Fresh eggplant, thinly sliced, sautéed, and then drizzled with gingered soy sauce. Cabbage pickled in rice-bran paste. Everything is just like home-cooked food, but the freshness of the vegetables really comes through.

“They’re grown and harvested in a field nearby, and prepared within the same day. The miso and soy sauce, they happen to come from a local storehouse too. I think a gourmand like you, Omachi, would really appreciate it,” Kojima laughed.

I liked the sound of Kojima’s laughter. I was on the verge of saying, Why not, let’s go, but then I didn’t. Ayu fish, huh. Fresh vegetables, I muttered instead, noncommittally.

“Let me know if you decide you want to go. Then I can make a quick reservation,” he said casually as he ordered another round.

We were sitting at the counter at Bar Maeda. This was maybe the fifth time Kojima and I had gotten together like this. A small plate was piled with sunflower seeds, and Kojima was munching away. I had snatched a few seeds myself and crunched on them too. Maeda quietly set a Four Roses bourbon and soda in front of Kojima.

Whenever Kojima and I came to Bar Maeda, I always had the feeling that I didn’t belong in a place like this. With its jazz standards playing low, its counter polished to a high gleam, its spotlessly clean glasses, the faint scent of tobacco smoke, and the perfect hum of activity—everything was flawless. It made me feel ill at ease.

“These sunflower seeds are good,” I said, taking a couple more. Kojima was drinking his bourbon and soda at a leisurely pace. I took a small sip from the glass in front of me. A flawless martini.

I set down my drink with a sigh. The glass was cold, its surface ever so slightly frosted over.

“THE RAINY SEASON is almost here,” Sensei said.

Right, Satoru replied. His nephew nodded too. The young guy was now a regular fixture at the bar.

Sensei turned toward him now to place his order, “Ayu fish.” The young man replied, “Yessir,” and withdrew to the back. The aroma of broiling fish soon wafted out.

“Sensei, do you like ayu?” I asked.

“I enjoy most fish, in general. Both saltwater fish and freshwater fish,” Sensei answered.

“Really? What about ayu fish, then?”

Sensei looked me in the face. Tsukiko, what is it with you and ayu? he asked, still staring at me.

Nothing in particular, I hastily replied, looking down. Sensei kept his eye on me for a bit longer, his head tilted to the side.

The young guy came out from the back carrying a plate with the ayu. It was served with a sour knotweed sauce.

“The green of the knotweed complements the fresh air during the rainy season,” Sensei murmured as he gazed at the fish.

Satoru laughed and said, Sensei, how poetic!

Sensei replied, It’s not poetic, it’s simply my impression. Using his chopsticks, he carefully broke the ayu fish into pieces and began to eat. Sensei’s manner of eating was always impeccable.

“Sensei, since you like ayu so much, why not go to a hot-spring hotel or someplace to eat it?” I asked.

Sensei raised his eyebrows. “I don’t need to go anywhere specifically to eat it,” he replied, lowering his eyebrows to their normal position. “What’s the matter, Tsukiko? You seem rather peculiar today, indeed.”

Takashi Kojima invited me on a trip, I almost blurted out. But of course I didn’t. Sensei was drinking his saké at a perfectly reasonable pace. Drinking and then pausing for a spell. He would take another sip, then pause again. I, on the other hand, was draining my cup faster than usual. Pouring and drinking, drinking then pouring. I was already on my third bottle of saké.

“Tsukiko, has something happened?” Sensei asked.

Reflexively I shook my head. Nothing has happened. Nothing, I said. There’s no reason to think something has happened, is there?

“If nothing has happened, then there should be no need to deny it so vehemently.”The ayu fish was already no more than just bones. Sensei nudged the delicate skeleton with his chopsticks. It had been picked perfectly clean. The ayu was delicious, Sensei said to Satoru.

Thanks, Satoru replied. I hurried to drain my cup. Sensei looked at the empty cup in my hand with a reproachful expression.

You’ve had enough for tonight, Tsukiko, he said gently.

Please leave me alone, I replied, filling my cup with saké. I drank that down in one gulp, having now emptied my third bottle.

“One more!” I ordered another from Satoru. Saké, he shouted curtly toward the back.