A leathery man in a blood-red jacket came in, ignoring me. He found the Charles Mingus section and bought about two-thirds of the stock, including the collectors’ items, peeling off ten-thousand yen notes like toilet paper. His eyeballs seemed to pulse to the bass rhythm. He left, carrying his purchases in a cardboard box which he assembled himself on the counter. He hadn’t asked for a discount, though I would have gladly given him one, and I was left with a wad of money. I phoned Takeshi to tell him the good news, and that it might be best if he came to pick the money up himself that night. I knew he had a cash-flow problem.
‘Ah,’ gasped Takeshi. ‘Baby! That’s the way. That is very, very, very good!’
There was hallucinogenic music on in the background that sounded like a migraine, and a woman being tortured by tickling.
Feeling I’d phoned at a bad time I said goodbye and hung up.
And still only 11 in the morning.
Koji was the class egg-head at high school, which made him an outsider, too. He should have gone to a much better high school, but until he was fifteen his dad was always being transferred so it was never that easy for him to keep up. Koji was also diabolically bad at sport. I swear, in three years I never saw him manage to hit a baseball once. There was one time when he took an almighty swing, the bat flew out of his hands and hurtled through the air like a missile, straight into Mr Ikeda, our games master who idolised Yukio Mishima even though I doubted he’d ever got through a whole book by anybody in his entire life.
I was doubled-up laughing, so I didn’t realise nobody else was. That cost me school toilet-cleaning duty for the whole term, with Koji. That’s when I learnt Koji loved the piano. I play the tenor saxophone. That’s how I got to know Koji. A winded games teacher and the foulest toilets in the Tokyo educational system.
One of our regulars, Mr Fujimoto, came in during the lunch hour. The bell rang and a gust of air rustled papers all around the shop. He was laughing as usual. He laughed because he was pleased to see me. He put a little parcel of books down on the counter for me. I always try to pay for them, but he never lets me. He says it’s a jazz disc consultancy fee.
‘Mr Fujimoto! How’s work today?’
‘Terrible!’ Mr Fujimoto only has one voice, and that is very loud. It’s as though his greatest fear is to not be heard. And when he really laughs the noise almost pushes you backwards.
The shop is smack bang between the business district of Otemachi and the publishing district around Ochanomizu, so our salaryman customers usually work in one or the other. You can always tell the difference. There’s a certain look that mega-Money bestows on its handlers. A sort of beadiness, and hunger. Hard to put your finger on, but it’s there all right. Money is another of those inner places, by the way. It’s a way to measure yourself.
The publishing salarymen, however, often have a streak of manic jollity. Mr Fujimoto is a prime specimen. He puns regularly and appallingly. For example:
‘Afternoon, Satoru-kun! Say, couldn’t you get Takeshi to give this place a new coat of paint? It’s looking kind of run down.’
‘Do you think so?’ I can smell the pay-off approaching.
‘Definitely! It’s positively seedy!’
Uh?
‘Seedy! CD! See-Dee!’
I wince in genuine pain and Mr Fujimoto gurgles appreciatively. The worse the better.
This lunchtime Mr Fujimoto was looking for something Lee Morgan-ish. I recommendedHank Mobley’s ‘A Caddyfor Daddy’, which he promptly bought. I know his tastes. Anything on the loony side of funky. As I handed over his change he suddenly became serious. He switched to a more formal mode of speech, took off his heavy glasses, and started cleaning the lenses.
‘I was wondering whether you might be planning to apply for college next year?’
‘Not really, no...’
‘So, would you be thinking about entering a particular profession?’
He’d rehearsed this beforehand. I guessed what was coming.
‘I don’t really have any plans at the moment. I guess I’ll just wait and see.’
‘Of course, Satoru, it’s absolutely none of my business, and please forgive me for interfering in your plans, but the only reason I’m asking is that a couple of positions in my office have just become available. Very humble. Just glorified editorial assistants, basically, but if you were interested in applying then I’d be happy to recommend you for one of them. Certainly I could get you to the interview stage. And it would be a foot in the door. I started out myself this way, you know. Everybody needs a step up, occasionally.’
I looked around the shop.
‘That’s a very generous offer, Mr Fujimoto. I’m not sure how to answer.’
‘Think it over, Satoru. I’m going to Kyoto for a few days on business. We won’t start interviewing until I get back. I’d be happy to have a word with your present employer on your behalf, if that’s what’s worrying you... I know Takeshi has a lot of respect for you, so he wouldn’t stand in your way.’
‘No, it’s not really that. Thank you. I’ll think seriously about it. Thank you... How much are the books?’
‘Nothing. Your consultancy fee. They’re just a few samples, we give ’em out free to people in the trade. These pocket paperback classics, they walk off the shelves. I remember you said you enjoyed The Great Gatsby — there’s a new Murakami translation of Fitzgerald’s short stories we’ve just brought out, The Lord of the Flies, that’s a laugh-a-minute, and a new García Márquez.’
‘It’s very kind of you.’
‘Nonsense! Just give the idea of publishing a serious think. There are worse ways to make a living.’
I’d thought about the girl every day since. Twenty or thirty or forty times a day. I’d find myself thinking of her and then not want to stop, like not wanting to get out of a hot shower on a winter morning. I ran my fingers through my hair and contemplated my face, using a Fats Navarro CD as a hand-mirror. Could she ever feel the same way back? I couldn’t even remember accurately what she looked like. Smooth skin, highish cheekbones, narrowish eyes. Like a Chinese empress. I didn’t really think of her face when I thought of her. She was just there, a colour that didn’t have a name yet. The idea of her.
I got angry with myself. It’s not as if I’m ever going to see her again. This is Tokyo. And besides, even if I did see her again, why should she be in the least bit interested in me? My mind can only hold one thought at a time. I may as well make it a thought worthwhile.
I thought about Mr Fujimoto’s offer. What am I doing here? Koji’s getting on with his life. All my high school classmates are in college or in a company. I am unfailingly updated on their progress by Koji’s mum. What am I doing?
A guy in a wheelchair flashed by outside.
Hey, hey, this is my place, remember. Time for jazz.
‘Undercurrent’ by Jim Hall and Bill Evans. An album of water, choppy and brushed by the wind, at other times silent and slow under trees. On other songs, chords glinting on inland seas.