Hideo Furukawa - Slow Boat

We made it through the summer. We did.

The first-person plural refers to me and my Knife Girl. The tale of my third love stands alone in the annals of my history. This time around, things really begin when the summer ends.

It was towards the end of September—more than two weeks after she went back to school—when she filled me in on the Hatchobori drama. It was a weirdly quiet day at Kate. One server had food poisoning and called in sick (eel liver was the culprit); another had to go home early (something about “the vault of heaven”?); the last server left right on schedule—without even saying goodbye.

She and I were the only ones around. She was making the next day’s lunches, and I was—you know—doing the books.

After her knife-cleaning routine, she started to talk.

I was at the counter, facing her.

“I… um…”

“Huh?”

“…”

The only noise in the room was coming from the ventilator.

“You know, I’ve been playing with blades ever since I was a kid…”

“Blades?” Meaning knives ?

“Like this.” She lifts up a razor-sharp fish knife, letting it catch the light.

“In my house, they were always around. I guess I liked the way they sparkled. Legendary blades give off a really intense light… and that caught my eye, or—like—maybe hypnotized me. My dad taught me all the basics. He never stopped to think about how I was just a baby. On my third birthday, I pinned down my own eel, slit it open, gutted it, broiled it and made sushi. I had a fish knife that I used for everything until I was like five. Then I branched out into other blades: sashimi, kamagata, mukimono … I was on TV, on Junior Chef Championship, and came in second. They called me ‘Girl Genius’. I was in second grade, maybe third, but I could scale a fish better than any of the middle-school kids.”

“Whoa…”

“It was like child’s play for me. I’ve lived with knives my whole life. I’ve come close to losing a finger so many times I lost track. When everyone else my age was holding a milk bottle, I was gripping my boning knife. This is what I was born to do. That’s why my dream was… going into the family business or whatever…”

“Like, take over?”

“Not really. I mean, my brother was around, so I knew I was never going to take my dad’s spot. I just thought—you know—I could open a sister shop or something. All I needed was the family name… or, like, part of it. I wanted to make my living with knives, with food. And I was serious about it. I was really really really into traditional Japanese cooking… Or, like, Edo-style with a modern twist. That was my dream.”

“Sounds great to me,” I say.

“To you !” she screams. “I was blind as a Bodhisattva. I totally misinterpreted what my dad was doing. I really thought he cared about me. One day, he looks me right in the eye and says, ‘I know what you’re thinking—but forget it. This business is no place for girls. Believe me, you’ll never make it!’ Just thinking about it makes my blood boil. He didn’t want me in the family business at all. Everything he taught me was just… supposed to make me a better housewife! I mean, are you fucking serious!?”

“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.