Min Lee - Pachinko

“Oh, I’m a fool. I’m so sorry,” he said, glancing at Yumi, who was trying not to laugh. “Should I come back tomorrow or the next day? I may be able to come by before you close.”

“Oh, yes, please,” Totoyama said, assessing the torn seams, oblivious to the two young people studying each other. “We’ll have it ready for you by tomorrow night.”

October 1961

Mozasu leaned against the maple tree opposite Totoyama-san’s workshop, his profile only slightly obscured by its trunk. This was their arranged meeting place. Three nights a week, Mozasu met Yumi after work. For over a year, he’d been accompanying her to the English class at the church, then heading back to her rented room where she’d fix them a simple dinner. Often, they would make love before Mozasu returned to Paradaisu Seven, where he worked until closing before falling asleep in his quarters at the employee dormitory.

It was already October, and though the early evening breezes had yet to lose the supple warmth of summer, the leaves on the trees were beginning to turn gold and shiny. The tall tree above him formed a burnished metallic lace against the blurry evening sky. Laborers and other men in uniform were returning home from work, and small children popped out of their homes to greet their fathers. In the past year, the road where Totoyama had her new workshop had improved, with families moving into the abandoned houses near the river. A local vegetable seller had done so well in his once-desolate spot that he was now able to rent the adjacent lot for his brother-in-law to sell dry goods. The new bakery selling Portuguese-style sponge cakes, which perfumed the street invitingly, had achieved sufficient fame in Osaka to command long lines each morning.

The seamstresses at Totoyama-san’s were working later than usual, so Mozasu studied his crumpled list of homework words. He’d never thought much of his memory when he was at school, but he found that he was able to remember English words and phrases very well. His recall was useful for impressing Yumi. Unlike most girls, who cared about gifts of cash, dresses, or trinkets, Mozasu’s girlfriend cared only about learning. Yumi seemed happiest with him when he gave the right answers when their teacher, the Reverend John Maryman, called on him. Yumi, who wanted to live in America, believed that she had to learn English well if she was to live there one day.

There was only a little natural light left to read by, but when a man’s shadow passed over him, he couldn’t make out the words on the page. Noticing the solemn pair of men’s work shoes a few paces from him, Mozasu glanced up.

“Is it possible that you are studying, Mo-san? Honto ?”

“Hey, Haruki!” Mozasu shouted. “Is that you? I haven’t seen you since I don’t know when!” He clasped his friend’s hand heartily and shook it. “I’m always asking your mother about you. She’s real proud of you. Not like she’s bragging, but you know, in her quiet, polite Totoyama-san way. And look at you! Haruki, the — police officer!” Mozasu whistled at Haruki’s academy uniform. “You look really serious. Makes me want to commit a crime. You’re not going to tell on me, right?”

Haruki smiled and hit Mozasu on the shoulder lightly with his fist, feeling shy around his old school friend. It had been difficult to keep away from Mozasu, but Haruki had done so because his feelings for him had been too strong. There had been other infatuations over the years and encounters with strangers. Recently, there was a fellow at the academy, Koji, another tough and funny guy. As he had done with Mozasu, Haruki did his best to keep away from Koji, because he knew well enough to draw a thick line between what was public and what was private.

“What the hell are you doing around here? Don’t you live near the academy?”

Haruki nodded. “I have the week off.”

“So? When do you become a cop? I mean detective.” Mozasu chuckled, pretending to bow formally.

“Two years.”

Upon seeing Mozasu by the maple tree, Haruki had been afraid to cross the street. The mere image of him had been overwhelming. As a boy, Haruki had worshipped Mozasu, who had saved him from the anguish of school. When Mozasu had dropped out to work for Goro-san and then disappeared into his job, Haruki had felt the loss like a deadly punch to the chest. After Mozasu left to work at the pachinko parlors, the sheep, witches, and ghouls of their high school emerged to the fore, forcing Haruki to retreat to any available sanctuary. During his free periods, he had filled his burgeoning sketchbooks with pencil drawings in the safety of a kindhearted art teacher’s classroom. Home was always the same: His younger brother would never grow up, and his mother could never quit working until her eyes failed. His art teacher, whose husband and brothers were police detectives, had given Haruki the suggestion to go to the police academy. Interestingly, the teacher had not been wrong. Haruki loved the academy with its rules and hierarchy. He did what he was told to do, and he did it very well. Also, it was easier just to start again in a new place where no one knew you.

“Why are you standing out here?” Haruki asked. The sun was very low, and its orange-red color moved him.

“I’m waiting for Yumi. She works for your mother. No one’s supposed to know about us, though. Of course, I don’t think your mother would care. I’m not such a terrible guy.”

“I won’t say anything,” Haruki said, thinking that Mozasu had become more appealing. He had always admired Mozasu’s smooth brow, the strong nose, and neat white teeth, but in his manager suit he looked like a grown man in charge of his life. Haruki wanted to follow him.

The workshop windows were still brightly lit, and the girls labored with their dark heads bowed at their worktables. Mozasu could imagine Yumi’s thin fingers flying across the fabric. When she focused on her work, Yumi could not be distracted. She was like that about everything and could be left alone working for hours. Mozasu couldn’t imagine being so quiet all the time; he would miss the bustle of the pachinko parlor. He loved all the moving pieces of his large, noisy business. His Presbyterian minister father had believed in a divine design, and Mozasu believed that life was like this game where the player could adjust the dials yet also expect the uncertainty of factors he couldn’t control. He understood why his customers wanted to play something that looked fixed but which also left room for randomness and hope.

“Do you see her?” Mozasu pointed with pride. “There! She’s the fourth desk from the—”

“Yumi-san. Yes, I’ve met her. She’s a good seamstress. A very elegant person. You’re lucky,” Haruki said. “And how’s your work? Have you made your fortune?”

“You should come by. I’m at the Paradaisu Seven now. Come tomorrow. I’m there all day and night nearly, except for when I meet Yumi and take her to the English class.”

“I don’t know. I have to see my brother while I’m home.”

“I hear he’s been a little down.”

“That’s why I came home. Mother said he’s getting a little strange. Not giving her trouble or anything, but she says that he talks less and less. The doctors don’t know what to do. They want him to go live in an institution. They say he might be happier living with other people like himself, but I doubt that. Those places can be—” Haruki sucked wind between his clenched teeth. “Of course, Mother would never allow it. Daisuke is a very good child.” Haruki said this quietly, having known for as long as he could remember that Daisuke would be his responsibility after his mother could no longer care for him. Who Haruki married would be determined by her willingness to be good to Daisuke and his aging mother.