“What the fuck…”
“Right, boss? Maybe he meant well, I dunno, but he swore he’d never let me get behind the counter. I lost my shit. Don’t get me wrong. I know where he’s coming from, I really do. It’s hard for anybody to make it in that world—and the men in this line of work eat women alive… Now more than ever. Before the bubble burst, Hatchobori had it all, tons of places to eat and work—but it’s not like that any more. Now it’s nothing but parking lots. But where else can you go? Nihonbashi? Ningyocho? My dad knew the odds were against me. So he picked me off. Like in baseball. You know? But, but… Aaugh!”
“It’s OK. Let it out.”
“Thanks, boss… Yeah, my dad and I collided, we collided head-on. But my brother was there and he stood up for me. He was, like, ‘Yeah, living by the knife is tough… but you’re no softie. You’re tough, you’re a diehard.’ When my dad heard that, he went apeshit. He beat the crap out of my brother—then he disowned him, which was when my brother started having run-ins with the law.”
Now I get it.
“When my brother called and told me he hurt his back, I didn’t think twice. Of course I was going to look after him. I owe him big, and I hate being at home and… and… and…”
“And?”
She runs around the counter, right up to me—knife in hand!
“…and I love you!” she says, squeezing me tight.
Huh?
“Boss—you cut right through me.”
Say what?
“You believe in me. I mean, I’m your Knife Girl, right? One hundred per cent? It makes me wanna cry. Just me being here could get you in trouble with the law. But you never even flinched…”
She’s right about that. I never gave it a thought…
“I can tell you’ve been fighting too—with everything you’ve got. You’re strong. And you’re protecting me—like my own guardian Śakra. You don’t even know it, but you saved me. Really. You gave me a chance. To fight against this idiotic world. And I’m not gonna give up. I’m not. You know I’m not.”
Knife Girl versus the World. And I thought Kate was my fortress.
She had burnt some bridges, too.
I told her everything I wanted from her. Not as my Knife Girl. As my girl.
Love.
She was my third girlfriend. My schoolgirl chef from the east.
It’s fall, 2000 A.D. We go out. We go places. With phantom 2,000-yen notes stuffed in our wallets. We start in Koenji. We go to see her brother—my first chef. Then we go exploring. We shop for food at Queen’s Isetan, for clothes on Look Street. We buy shirts. A long-sleeve covered in mahjong tiles for me; a short-sleeve with a tarantula print for her. Then we just wander around the area, making fun of all the second-hand stores. Steering clear of Hatchobori, drifting slowly towards the core of Tokyo—Edo? We go east, to eat monja in Tsukishima. The way my grandparents see it, she tells me, this place isn’t Edo… Because it’s reclaimed land or whatever. But the monja tastes great, right? We head back. We savour the view from Aioi Bridge at night. Sumida River, the Harumi Canal. We can see Koto ward in the distance. When we enter Chuo ward, we pick up the faint scent of newly printed books.
So many sluices.
So many bridges.
That’s what we see. When we go out. When Kate is closed. The rest of the time, we’re perfectly happy in our fortress. Kate is our little universe. Our way out of Tokyo, even if we never really leave.
She was the heart of our fortress. The heart of me.
Needless to say, there was no happy ending in the cards. The world would beat me down, like it always does. Beat us down? No. Her future was wide open—I was the only one who was going to lose everything.
Mere moments before everything fell apart, I ran into an old friend. I definitely need to mention him here. Because he wrote the chronicle. He was a really good guy, I swear. But his timing was fucking abysmal—like a soothsayer with nothing soothing to say.
It was a December afternoon at Kate. I was sitting at the counter, racking my brains over potential logos for the place. I guess I thought Kate could use a new look—for the new century.
Something like a flag… A declaration of Kate’s independence.
From Tokyo.
Then things started getting busy. A ton of orders were coming in and drinks were piling up on the counter. I didn’t serve, as a rule, but I did when things got too hectic. So I checked the orders, then took an espresso to a corner table; I didn’t get a good look at the customer—his face was hidden behind massive fern fronds. But I could tell that he was about my age.
Him (looking up at me in disbelief): Huh?
Me: You didn’t want an espresso?
Him: For real?
Me: Huh?
Him: You—you’re… (He says my name. Well, a nickname I had back in high school.)
Now the disbelief is mine. I give him a good look—when it hits me like a piano.
Me: Seriously? Nohara?
Him: In the flesh.
Nohara and I were in the same grade. Remember what I said before? About high school. About being a quiet kid. About Japanese for idiots. We had our own words. Words that will live forever—when the chronicle of my life is finally put into writing.
Him: What are you doing here?
Me: I run this place. What are you doing here?
Him: You run this place? Wow. You? In business?
It bothers me how he seems sort of impressed.
Him: Great work. I guess I’m here for work, too. To cover the place.
Me: What do you mean?
I didn’t keep tabs on old classmates (I was too busy working), so I had no idea what Nohara did for a living. “‘The river flows on, but the water is never the same.’ We read that in high school. Remember?” he asks. (Yeah, I remember. Opening lines from The Ten-Foot Hut. Obviously.) Then he pulls a stack of glossy magazines out of his bag.
Him: I write stuff like this.
His magazines are full of coloured Post-its, marking the pages with his own articles. He’s a writer now. Does some freelance editing, too. I take a look at his prose… Surprisingly readable. Nowhere near as devious as it used to be. “The pen is not the man,” I guess. Speaking of which…
Me: What the hell is this name? Kaku Nohara?
Him: Me.
Me: I know Nohara. Where did Kaku come from?
Him: It’s my pen name. Cool, right? Now my full name means “Heartfield…” Teeheehee.
What the hell is he grinning about?
Nothing’s changed. Almost like there had been no decade-long blank. If we had a deck of cards, we could have played “Poorest of the Poor”—just the two of us. Like we did in high school. A couple of hours after our chance reunion, we meet up at a local oden place. This time, on purpose. By appointment. When we’re done eating, Nohara puts our private patois on hold for a moment—for the sake of business: “If you’re OK with it, I’d love to write a longer piece about your place. It’ll make a great story.”
His face tells me that he means it.
The piece he has in mind, the one he wants me to OK, is tentatively titled: “168 Hours in a Café: Twenty-Four Hours x Seven Days”. As Nohara puts it: a photo-essay on everything that goes on inside a popular café. Yeah, right. Kate’s no fucking café (not to me), and words like “popular” trip my gag reflex… (But, damn… It’s the perfect cover. To help keep my Trojan Horse off the radar. What the hell should I say?) OK, someone just shut me up. I’m way overthinking this.