Rumi had no idea what the two men were talking about. Yukawa, she supposed, must be the academic chap she saw from time to time at Namiki-ya. But what had he done? The expression on her husband’s face was unrelentingly grim.
Unable to bear the sight of him looking so miserable, Rumi went out to the kitchen. She decided to prepare for the worst by making herself a nice cup of jasmine tea. It would help calm her nerves.
She switched on the kettle and placed the glass teapot and a teacup on the counter nearby. There was a wide range of different teas lined up in cans on the shelf. She took down her favorite variety of jasmine and was trying to open the lid, when her hand slipped. The can tipped sideways, and the tea leaves scattered over the floor.
She felt a sense of existential misery as she contemplated the mess. She couldn’t be bothered to tidy it up and just stood there indecisively, doing nothing.
Why have I ended up like this? Life used to be so good, just one wonderful day after another.
Rumi didn’t come from a well-to-do family. Her father, a taxi driver, was a luckless fellow who, according to her mother, said, “Specialized in driving around in circles in the parts of town where no one needed a cab.” When Rumi got to the last year of primary school, her mother announced that she would have to start working, too, so she got herself a part-time job at the local supermarket.
When she was on her own, Rumi spent a lot of time listening to music. The high school girl who lived in the apartment next door would give her any CDs she was bored with. Rumi was thrilled, even if the songs weren’t the latest hits. She would listen to the albums over and over again until she knew all the melodies and lyrics by heart. The portable CD player that she had begged her mother to get for her was her most prized possession. She would put it in her bag and take it with her whenever she left the house.
While she was in junior high, she made friends with a girl named Kumiko. Kumiko played the piano. They were discussing their favorite songs one day, when out of the blue Kumiko suggested that they go to the karaoke parlor. Rumi was a little startled. Her parents had taken her to karaoke often, but she didn’t really think that children were supposed to visit karaoke parlors by themselves.
“It’s fine. And the daytime rate’s cheaper.” Kumiko was clearly an old hand at karaoke.
Early one Saturday afternoon, the two of them went to a parlor near the station. Kumiko insisted that Rumi go first, so, after a little bashful hesitation, she sang one of her favorite songs. It was the first time Rumi had sung in front of anyone other than her parents.
Kumiko’s eyes lit up and she clapped along with the music. When the song was over, she declared that Rumi was “incredibly talented.” Although Rumi assumed her friend was just being nice, the expression on Kumiko’s face was deadly serious when she asked Rumi what other songs she knew and begged her to sing some more.
Everybody likes to be praised. And Rumi enjoyed singing, anyway. She was wondering what song to sing next, when Kumiko picked out a song for her. “Can you sing this one?” A recent hit, it was a difficult song with plenty of high notes.
Rumi hadn’t sung it before, but was prepared to give it a go. It felt good when she started to sing along with the backing track. The way she synchronized with the music, it was almost a physical sensation.
Kumiko applauded at the end. “You’re better than good, Rumi; you’re professional level. You could definitely make it as a singer,” she said. It was what she went on to say after that that changed Rumi’s life. “Let’s start a band. I’ve been looking for someone like you.”
Rumi was a little taken aback. She liked to sing, but she’d never thought doing anything with it. As Kumiko poured out her heart and the two of them discussed her idea of starting a band, singing was transformed into a beautiful but realizable dream for Rumi.
They started out as just piano and vocals. They called themselves Milk, a name made by combining some of the syllables in both their names. They began by performing cover versions in amateur competitions but once they realized that was hardly the high road to success, they started to write their own songs. Kumiko handled the composition, while Rumi added lyrics to the finished melodies. She just cobbled words together so they’d be as singable as possible.
When they got to tenth grade, the two of them went to different high schools. Milk, however, continued. It was only in their final year of high school that Kumiko suggested pausing the band so they could focus on their university entrance exams. Rumi was stunned. The two of them had always talked about becoming professional musicians. The idea of going to university had never crossed her mind.
“If you can make it as a professional, the more power to you. In case you can’t, you always need a backup plan.”
Kumiko’s own backup plan was to become a teacher, which was why she was applying for the education department at university.
Kumiko was a logical, dispassionate person. In her mind, dreams were dreams and reality was reality and a clear line divided the two. Rumi was different. She felt that her best friend had drifted away from her and that she had been left all on her own.
When she sat down to discuss her future with her parents, neither of them was especially keen for her to go to university. Since her school grades were rather mediocre, they couldn’t see much point in sending her to an expensive private university. Rumi felt the same: Music was all she was interested in doing.
It was at that moment that a club where she’d performed got in touch. Someone had approached them for Milk’s contact details. Was it okay for them to give them out? The someone was a musician who was trying to recruit a young female vocalist.
Her interest piqued; Rumi said yes. And that was how she met Naoki Niikura.
Niikura played the synthesizer in several bands as well as composing music and lyrics for other artists. Rumi discovered later that he was well-known in the music world.
Niikura had actually seen Milk perform live on several occasions. That was why when someone floated the idea of putting together a new band, he thought of adding her in on vocals.
When Rumi explained all this to Kumiko, her friend was thrilled. The chance to team up with a group of real professionals was the luckiest of lucky breaks for Rumi. Kumiko was also relieved. She’d been feeling guilty because she’d decided not to restart Milk after its current pause.
Niikura didn’t hold back. He promised Rumi he would make her into a star, a household name in Japan. Rumi found his extravagant praise intensely motivating, that only she had the talent necessary to sing the songs he wrote.
After around a year of rehearsals, their band made its debut on a major record label. The first CD they released garnered little attention, but the single they put out afterward was used in the credit sequence of an anime and became a respectable hit.
Rumi started to dream big. Maybe we can make it. Rapturously, she imagined herself performing in an arena in front of tens of thousands of fans.
Sadly, real life is seldom so sweet. The new songs they put out got no traction at all, their concert tickets went unsold, and sales of their CDs drifted downward.
They battled on with limpet-like persistence. Niikura was convinced that Rumi’s talents would be recognized somewhere down the line.
“You’ve got something, Rumi. People can’t overlook you forever. It’s simply can’t be,” he used to say when he was drunk.
The band stuck together for exactly ten years. Niikura then made a couple of proposals to Rumi, who was on the eve of turning thirty. The first of these was to retire from performing.