Taro picked up the book I was reading. ‘What’s this? Madame Bovary, eh? That French geezer? Wouldn’t you credit it, Mama-san? We couldn’t get him to study for six years of education, now he’s reading on the job.’ He read out a bit I’d underlined: ‘“One should be wary of touching one’s idols, for the gilt comes off on one’s fingers.”’ He thought about it for a moment. ‘Funny things, books. Yes, Mama-san. We’d better go.’
‘Thanks for bringing my lunch.’
Mama-san nodded. ‘Ayaka made it. It’s broiled eel. She knows how much you like it. Remember to thank her later. Goodbye now.’
The sky was brightening up. I ate my boxed lunch, wishing I was in Ueno Park too. Mama-san’s girls are fun. They treat me like a kid brother. They would have spread out a big blanket under a tree and would be singing old tunes with made-up words. I’ve seen foreigners get drunk in bars out in Shibuya and places, and they turn into animals. Japanese people never do that. The men might get friskier, but never violent. Alcohol lets off steam for Japanese. For foreigners, alcohol just seems to build steam up. And they kiss in public, too! I’ve seen them stick their tongues in and grope the girl’s breasts. In bars, where everyone can see! I can never get over that. Mama-san always tells Taro to tell them we’re full, or else she stings them for such a whopping cover charge that they never come back.
The disc finished. I ate the last morsel of broiled eel, rice and pickle. Ayaka knew how to make a good boxed lunch.
My back hurt. I’m too young for my back to hurt. This chair has become really uncomfortable lately, I can’t sit still. When Takeshi gets over his present financial crisis I’ll ask him about getting a new one. Looks like I’ll have to wait a long time, though. I wondered what to play next. I burrowed through a box full of unsorted discs that Takeshi had left on the floor behind the counter, but there was nothing I didn’t already know. Surely I could find something. We have twelve thousand discs in stock. I realised I was scared of not needing music any more.
It turned out to be quite a busy afternoon. A lot of browsers, but a lot of buyers too. Seven o’clock came round quickly. I cashed up, put the takings in the safe in the tiny office, set the alarm and locked the office door. Put my lunch box and Madame Bovary in my bag, a Benny Goodman CD that I was going to borrow that night — a perk of the job — flicked off the lights, and locked the door.
I was outside rolling down the shutter when I heard the phone ringing inside. Damn! My first impulse was to pretend I hadn’t heard it, but then I knew that I’d be spending the whole evening wondering who had been trying to ring. I’d probably have to start phoning round people just to see if they’d phoned me, and if I did that I’d have to explain why I hadn’t answered in the first place... damn it. It would be easier just to open up the shop again and answer it.
I’ve thought about it many times since: if that phone hadn’t rung at that moment, and if I hadn’t taken the decision to go back and answer it, then everything that happened afterwards wouldn’t have happened.
An unknown voice. Soft, worried. ‘It’s Quasar. The dog needs to be fed!’
Excuse me? I listened for more. The static hiss sounded like the crashing of waves, or could it be the noise of a pachinko arcade? I didn’t say anything — it’s best not to encourage these crank callers. There was nothing more. As though he was waiting for something. So I waited a little longer, and then I hung up, puzzled. Oh well.
I had my back to the door when it opened. The bell jingled, and I thought, ‘Oh no, let me out of here!’ I turned round, and when I looked up I almost fell backwards over a limited edition box set of Lester Young. The floor of Takeshi’s Jazz Hole swelled.
It’s you! Peering into the dimness of my place.
She was speaking to me. She was actually here. She’d come back alone. I’d imagined this scene so many times in my head, but each time it was I who started things. I almost didn’t catch what she was saying. She’d actually come back!
‘Are you still open?’
‘—yes!’
‘You don’t seem very open. The lights are off.’
‘—yes! Erm, I was getting ready to close, but until I close, I’m very completely open. Here!’ I switched the lights on again. ‘There.’ Wishing I sounded cooler. I must look like a junior high school kid.
‘Don’t let me stop you going home.’
‘Don’t let — no, you’re not. Erm, I. Take your time. Please. Come in.’
‘Thank you.’ The her that lived in her looked out through her eyes, through my eyes and at the me that lives in me.
‘I—’ I began.
‘This—’ she began.
‘Go on,’ we both said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘You go on. You’re the lady.’
‘You’re going to think I’m a nutcase, but I came in about ten days ago, and,’ she was unconsciously rolling on the balls of her heels, ‘and there was this piece of music you were playing... I can’t get it out of my head. A piano and a saxophone. I mean, there’s no reason why you should have remembered it or me or anything...’ She trailed off. There was something odd about the way she spoke. Her accent swung this way and that. I loved it.
‘It was two weeks ago. Exactly. Plus a couple of hours.’
She was pleased. ‘You remember me?’
I didn’t quite recognise my own laugh. ‘Sure I do.’
‘I was with my revolting cousin and her friends. They treat me like an imbecile because I’m half-Chinese. My mother was Japanese, you see. Dad’s Hong Kong Chinese. My home’s in Hong Kong.’ Nothing apologetic about the way she spoke. I’m not pure Japanese and if you don’t like that you can stick it.
I thought of Tony Williams’s drumming in ‘In a Silent Way’. No, I didn’t think of it. I felt it, somewhere inside.
‘Hey, that’s nothing! I’m half-Filipino. The music was “Left Alone” by Mal Waldron. Would you like to hear it again?’
‘Would you mind?’
‘’Course I wouldn’t mind... Mal Waldron’s one of my gods. I kneel down to him every time I go to the temple. What’s Hong Kong like, compared to Tokyo?’
‘Foreigners say it’s dirty, noisy and poky, but really, there’s nowhere like it. Not anywhere. And when Kowloon gets too much you can escape to the islands. On Lantau Island there’s a big buddha sitting on a hill...’
For a moment I had an odd sensation of being in a story that someone was writing, but soon that sensation too was being swallowed up.
The cherry blossoms had come and almost gone. New green leaves, still silky and floppy, were drying on the trees lining the back street. Living and light as mandolins and zithers. The commuters streamed by. Not a coat in sight. Some had come out without their jackets. No denying it, spring was old news.
The phone rang. Koji, calling from the college canteen. ‘So. Who is she?’
‘Who?’
‘Stop it! You know perfectly well who! The girl at Mrs Nakamori’s last night who sat there swooning on your every note! Let me see... Her name began with “Tomo” and ended with “yo”. What was she called I wonder? Oh yes, that’s right. Tomoyo.’
‘Oh, her...’
‘Don’t give me that! I saw you two making eyes at each other.’
‘You imagined it.’