Min Lee - Pachinko

“You’re Chosenjin ?”

“Yes, but what does that matter?” the father said.

“It doesn’t. It shouldn’t. Excuse me.” Haruki glanced at the album. “Does the school know? About this? There was nothing in the report about any other kids.”

“I took the afternoon off to show it to the principal. He said it was impossible to know who wrote those things,” the father said.

“ Soo, soo ,” Haruki said.

“Why can’t the children who wrote this be punished? Why?” the mother asked.

“There were several people who witnessed him jump with no one else on the roof. Your son was not pushed. We cannot arrest everyone who says or writes something mean-spirited—”

“Why can’t the police make the principal—” The father looked directly at him, then, seeing Haruki’s defeated expression, the father stared at the door instead. “You people work together to make sure nothing ever changes. Sho ga nai. Sho ga nai . That’s all I ever hear.”

“I’m sorry. I am sorry,” he said before leaving.

Paradaisu Yokohama was crowded at eight o’clock in the evening. The volcanic rush of tinny bells, the clanging of tiny hammers across miniature metal bowls, the beeping and flashing of colorful lights, and the throaty shouts of welcome from the obsequious staff felt like a reprieve from the painful silence in his head. Haruki didn’t even mind the thick swirls of tobacco smoke that hung like a layer of gray mist above the heads of the players seated opposite the rows upon rows of vertical, animated machines. As soon as Haruki stepped into the parlor, the Japanese floor manager rushed to him and asked if he would like tea. Boku-san was in the office in a meeting with a machine salesman and promised to be down shortly. Haruki and Mozasu had a standing dinner arrangement every Thursday, and Haruki was here to pick him up.

It was fair to say that almost everyone at the parlor wanted to make some extra money by gambling. However, the players also came to escape the eerily quiet streets where few said hello, to keep away from the loveless homes where wives slept with children instead of husbands, and to avoid the overheated rush-hour train cars where it was okay to push but not okay to talk to strangers. When Haruki was a younger man, he had not been much of a pachinko player, but since moving to Yokohama, Haruki allowed himself to find some comfort here.

It took no time for him to lose several thousand yen, so he bought another tray of balls. Haruki wasn’t reckless about his inheritance, but his mother had saved so much that he’d have enough even if he was fired, and even if he lost a fortune. When Haruki paid young men to sleep with him, he could afford to be generous. Of all the vices, pachinko seemed like a petty one.

The small metal balls zigzagged rhythmically across the rectangular face of the machine, and Haruki moved the dial steadily to keep the action going. No , he had wanted to tell Tetsuo’s father, how can I prove guilt for a crime that doesn’t exist? I cannot punish and I cannot prevent. No, he could not say such things. Not to anyone. So much he could never say. Since he was a child, Haruki had wanted to hang himself, and he thought of it still. Of all the crimes, Haruki understood murder-suicides the best; if he could have, he would’ve killed Daisuke, then himself. But he could never kill Daisuke. And now he could not do such an unspeakable thing to Ayame. They were innocent.

The machine died suddenly. He looked up and saw Mozasu holding the plug to the extension cord. He wore a black suit with a red Paradaisu Yokohama pin on his jacket lapel.

“How much did you lose, dummy?”

“A lot. Half my pay?”

Mozasu pulled out his wallet and handed Haruki a sheaf of yen notes, but Haruki wouldn’t take it.

“It’s my own fault. Sometimes I win, right?”

“Not that often.” Mozasu tucked the money into Haruki’s coat pocket.

At the izakaya , Mozasu ordered beer and poured Haruki his first drink from the large bottle. They sat at the long counter on carved wooden stools. The owner laid out the dish of warm, salted soybeans, because they always started with those.

“What’s the matter with you?” Mozasu asked. “You look like shit.”

“A kid jumped off a building. Had to talk with his parents today.”

“Ugh. How old?”

“Middle school. Korean.”

“ Ehh ?”

“You should have seen what the rotten kids wrote on his yearbook.”

“Probably the same shit kids wrote in mine.”

“ Maji ?”

“Yeah, every year, a bunch of knuckleheads would tell me to go back to Korea or to die a slow death. Just mean kid stuff.”

“Who? Anyone I know?”

“It was a long time ago. Besides, what are you going to do? Arrest them?” Mozasu laughed. “So, you’re sad about that? About the kid?”

Haruki nodded.

“You have a weakness for Koreans,” Mozasu said, smiling. “You idiot.”

Haruki started to cry.

“What the hell? Hey, hey.” Mozasu patted his back.

The owner behind the counter looked away and wiped down the counter space of a customer who’d just left.

Haruki clasped his head with his right hand and closed his wet eyes.

“The poor kid couldn’t take any more.”

“Listen, man, there’s nothing you can do. This country isn’t going to change. Koreans like me can’t leave. Where we gonna go? But the Koreans back home aren’t changing, either. In Seoul, people like me get called Japanese bastards, and in Japan, I’m just another dirty Korean no matter how much money I make or how nice I am. So what the fuck? All those people who went back to the North are starving to death or scared shitless.”

Mozasu patted down his pockets for cigarettes.

“People are awful. Drink some beer.”

Haruki took a sip and coughed, having swallowed wrong.

“When I was a boy, I wanted to die,” Haruki said.

“Me too. Every fucking day, I thought it would be better if I died, but I couldn’t do it to my mother. Then after I left school, I didn’t feel that way anymore. But after Yumi died, I didn’t know if I was going to make it. You know? But then I couldn’t do it to Solomon. And my mother, well, you know, she changed after Noa disappeared. I can never let her down like that. My mother said that my brother left because he couldn’t handle Waseda and was ashamed. I don’t think that’s true. Nothing in school was ever hard for him. He’s living somewhere else, and he doesn’t want us to find him. I think he just got tired of trying to be a good Korean and quit. I was never a good Korean.”

Mozasu lit his cigarette.

“But things get better. Life is shitty, but not all the time. Etsuko’s great. I didn’t expect her to come along. You know, I’m going to help her open a restaurant.”

“She’s a nice lady. Maybe you’ll get married again.” Haruki liked Mozasu’s new Japanese girlfriend.

“Etsuko doesn’t want to get married again. Her kids hate her enough already. It’d be hell for her if she married a Korean pachinko guy.” Mozasu snorted.

Haruki’s sad expression remained.

“Man, life’s going to keep pushing you around, but you have to keep playing.”

Haruki nodded.

“I used to think if my father hadn’t left, then I’d be okay,” Haruki said.

“Forget him. Your mother was a great lady; my wife thought she was the best of the best. Tough and smart and always fair to everyone. She was better than having five fathers. Yumi said she was the only Japanese she’d ever work for.”

“Yeah. Mama was a great lady.”

The owner brought out the fried oysters and shishito peppers.

Haruki wiped his eyes with a cocktail napkin, and Mozasu poured him another glass of beer.