Хироми Каваками - Strange Weather in Tokyo [= The Briefcase]

“Everyone’s connected somehow, perhaps,” Sensei replied serenely, taking care as he poured saké from the bottle to his cup. A young man seated next to us at the counter was staring at Sensei and me. I had caught his attention when I raised my voice a moment ago. The guy had three piercings in his ear. He wore gold studs in two of the holes and, in the first hole, a dangling earring that swayed with a particular shimmer.

I’d like hot saké too, I called out my order to the counter and then asked, Sensei, do you believe in past lives? The guy next to us seemed to be eavesdropping.

“Sort of.” Sensei’s response was unexpected. I thought he would say something like, Tsukiko, what about you, do you believe in past lives? You know, it’s awfully sentimental.

“Past lives, or fate, that is.”

Daikon , tsumire , and beef tendons, please, Sensei ordered.

Not to be outdone, I followed with Chikuwabu , konnyaku noodles, and I’ll also have some daikon . The young man next to us asked for kombu and hanpen . We left off our conversation about fate and past lives while we focused on eating our oden for the moment. Sensei, still off-kilter, brought to his mouth the daikon that he had cut into bite-size pieces with his chopsticks, while I hunched forward a little to nibble on my piece of daikon.

The saké and the oden are so delicious, I said. Sensei patted me lightly on the head. Lately, I had noticed that, from time to time, Sensei would make this gentle gesture.

As he patted my head, he said, “It’s nice to see someone who enjoys eating.”

Shall we order a little more, Sensei?

Good idea.

We chatted as we ordered. The young man beside us was quite red in the face. What appeared to be three empty saké bottles were lined up in front of him, along with an empty glass, so he must have had beer too. He radiated drunkenness, as if his heavy breathing could reach all the way over to us.

“You two, just what are you?” He blurted out suddenly. He had barely touched the kombu and hanpen on his plate. Pouring saké into his cup from a fourth bottle, he exhaled in our direction, his breath reeking of alcohol. His earring glimmered brilliantly.

“What do you mean by that?” Sensei replied, pouring from his own bottle.

“That’s a pretty good setup, you know, for you two,” he said with a smirk. There was something peculiar about his laugh though. It was as if he had somehow swallowed a frog and now he couldn’t seem to laugh from his gut anymore—his strangely menacing laugh sounded like it was caught in his throat.

“And what do you mean by that?” Sensei earnestly asked him in return.

“You’re much older than she is but still, you’re all cozy together.”

Sensei nodded magnanimously, as if to say, Ah, yes , and looked straight before him. You could almost hear a slapping sound at that moment. I do not deign to speak to the likes of you. Sensei may not have uttered the words, but it was clear that was what he was thinking. I sensed it, and the guy must have sensed it too.

“It’s perverted, really. Act your age!” He seemed to realize that Sensei was not going to respond to him anymore, yet, nevertheless, that only encouraged his vehemence.

“Are you doing it with this old man?” he said to me, looking past Sensei. His voice echoed throughout the odenya . I glanced at Sensei but, of course, he was not going to lose his composure over such a comment.

“How many times a month do you do it, huh?”

“Now, Yasuda, that’s enough,” the owner of the odenya tried to cut him off. The young man was considerably drunker than he initially appeared to be. His body was twitching as he swayed backward and forward. If Sensei hadn’t been sitting between us, I certainly would have slapped the guy in the face.

“Shuttup!” He now turned to shout at the owner, and tried to douse him in the face with the saké in his cup. But he was so drunk that his aim was off, and he spilled most of it on his own pants instead.

“Fuck!” he shouted again, using a towel the owner had handed him to wipe off his pants as well as the area around him. Then suddenly he fell flat on the counter, and immediately started to snore.

“Yasuda’s been a terrible drunk lately,” the owner said to us, waving one hand and bowing his head.

I see. I nodded vaguely, but Sensei didn’t nod at all, he simply said, in the same tone of voice as always, “Another bottle of hot saké, please.”

“TSUKIKO, I’M TERRIBLY sorry.”

The young man was still passed out on the counter and snoring. The owner had tried repeatedly to shake him awake, to no avail. If he wakes up, you see, I’m sure he’ll go right home, the owner said to us before going to take a table’s order.

“That must have been awfully unpleasant for you, Tsukiko. I’m terribly sorry.”

Please don’t apologize for him, Sensei, I was about to say, but I held my tongue. I was livid with anger. Not for myself, that is, but for Sensei being put in the position of having to make such a ridiculous apology.

I really wish this guy would hurry up and leave, I whispered, gesturing to him with my chin. But he refused to budge, and just kept right on with his absurdly loud snoring.

“That thing really sparkles, doesn’t it?” Sensei said.

Huh? I muttered, and Sensei pointed at the guy’s earring with a grin and a snicker. You’re right, it certainly does, I replied, somewhat dumbfounded. There were times when Sensei really puzzled me. I ordered another bottle of saké too, and drank in its warmth. Sensei just kept on with his chuckling. What could he be laughing at? Dejected, I went to the bathroom and did my business vigorously. I felt a little better, and by the time I sat back down next to Sensei, I had settled down a bit more.

“Tsukiko, look, look at this.” Sensei held out his hand and gently uncurled his fingers to reveal something sparkly, there in his palm.

What is that?

“Just what you think—look, it’s what was on his ear.” Sensei’s gaze trailed over to the still-snoring young man. My eyes followed his, and I saw that the sparkliest jangle that had been hanging from the guy’s ear was gone. The two gold studs were still there, but at the edge of his earlobe there was nothing but an empty hole that seemed to gape a bit now.

Sensei, you took it?

“I stole it.” His expression was perfectly innocent.

Now, why would you do that? I reproached him, but Sensei was quite unperturbed. He shook his head.

“The author Hyakken Uchida wrote something like this,” Sensei started in.

If I recall, there is a short story called “The Amateur Pickpocket.” There’s a fellow who gets boorishly rude and impolite when he drinks, and he always wears a gold chain that dangles from his neck. His rudeness itself is bothersome enough, but the sight of this chain becomes more and more offensive to another fellow, so he steals it. Just like that, he takes it. Do not assume that because the boor was drunk it was an easy thing to do—the one who stole it was drunk himself, so it was an equal task.

“That’s the gist of it. Hyakken, he’s really quite good.” Now that I thought about it, Sensei used to always wear this same ingenuous expression during Japanese class. I remembered it well.

Is that why you stole it? I asked.

Sensei nodded vigorously. “You could say I was following after Hyakken.”

Are you familiar with Hyakken, Tsukiko? I figured Sensei would ask me this, but he did not. I thought I might have heard his name before, but I wasn’t sure. The logic of the story was nonsense, though. Drunk or not, it was wrong to steal. Yet the scenario was strangely apt. And what made sense about it seemed particularly fitting to Sensei.