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

No, never. When I was in elementary school, my dad used to take me along with him, so I’ve played on those old-fashioned machines where you flick each ball. I was pretty good at those, actually.

The moment I finished speaking, the third symbol stopped spinning. This last one matched up with the first two.

“Customer number 132 has just won a ‘Lucky Chance’! Con-gratulations!” An announcement came over the loud speaker, and Sensei’s machine began flashing wildly.

Without a second glance my way, Sensei remained completely focused on his machine. Quite out of character, his posture was now somewhat rounded. He launched the balls in rapid succession, and they were swallowed up by a large blooming tulip in the center. When that happened, the dish underneath the machine began to overflow with the clinking of pachinko balls. A parlor employee brought over a large square receptacle. Sensei opened the lever at the bottom with his left hand while still gripping the handle with his right hand. The containers were deftly switched, with care taken not to allow any more balls to fall into the tulip.

The larger square receptacle was soon full of balls.

“I guess that’ll be all,” Sensei murmured. When the container was filled right to the brim, the tulip closed and the machine suddenly fell silent. Sensei straightened his back once again and released his grip on the handle.

“So many of them!” I said, and Sensei nodded, still facing forward. He heaved a great sigh.

“Tsukiko, would you like to try?” Sensei turned around to ask. “It will be like sociological research.”

Sociological research, indeed. That was so utterly Sensei. I sat down at the machine next to Sensei’s. Now, buy some balls for yourself, Sensei advised, so first I bought a card and then tentatively inserted it in the machine to get ¥500 worth.

Following Sensei’s example, I sat up straight and tried my best at launching the balls, but none went in. Five hundred yen worth of balls were gone in no time. I took out my card again and bought more balls. This time I tried maneuvering the handle at various angles. Next to me, Sensei kept calmly launching balls. The symbols in the center remained still, yet a steady stream of balls going in the holes made them emit jingling sounds. The next ¥500 worth also gone, I stopped playing. The symbols on Sensei’s machine had started spinning again.

“Will they match up again?” I asked, but Sensei shook his head.

“Most certainly not. The odds must be one in a thousand, or more.”

Just as he predicted, the symbols lined up haphazardly. Checking to see that the trickle of balls flowing out while he played was now about even with the number of balls that he was using, Sensei stood up. Picking up the full container effortlessly, he headed toward the counter. After the number of balls was counted for him, Sensei walked around the corner that was decorated with prizes.

“You’re not exchanging them for money?” I asked, and Sensei stared at me.

“Tsukiko, you seem to know a lot for someone who doesn’t play pachinko.”

Yes, well, it’s all vicarious, I replied. Sensei laughed. Nevertheless, I would have said that pachinko prizes meant chocolate, but in fact, there were all sorts of things available, from electric rice cookers to neckties. Sensei intently examined each prize. He finally settled on a desktop vacuum cleaner in a cardboard box from behind the counter. He exchanged his remaining winnings for chocolate.

HERE, TAKE THE chocolate. Out in front of the parlor, Sensei held out the dozen or so chocolate bars to me.

Sensei, you keep some. I fanned out the bars like a hand of cards when playing old maid, and Sensei took three. Did you play pachinko with Ms. Ishino as well? I asked, nonchalant.

What? Sensei said, tilting his head. Tsukiko, weren’t you the one who went off with some young man? he retorted.

What? This time it was I who tilted my head.

Well done, Sensei. You’re very good at pachinko, I said.

Sensei made a sour face. One mustn’t gamble—it’s no good—but I do enjoy pachinko. As he said the words, he carefully adjusted the box with the desktop vacuum cleaner under his arm.

Walking side by side, Sensei and I returned to the shopping district.

Why don’t we get a quick drink at Satoru’s?

That sounds good.

Don’t you have a date tomorrow?

That’s all right.

Are you sure?

Yes, I’m sure. We were mumbling quietly now.

It’s all right, I repeated to myself as I sidled up to Sensei.

The young leaves had grown into a thick verdure. Sensei and I walked slowly under a single umbrella. Occasionally, Sensei’s arm would touch my shoulder. Sensei held the umbrella straight up high.

“I wonder if Satoru’s place is open yet,” I mused.

Sensei replied, “If not, we can just walk a bit.”

“Yes, let’s walk then,” I said, looking up at Sensei’s umbrella.

“Onward, then,” Sensei said, echoing the decisiveness of the march that had been playing inside the pachinko parlor.

The rain had softened to a drizzle. A raindrop fell on my cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand as Sensei looked on disapprovingly.

“Tsukiko, don’t you have a handkerchief?”

“I do, but it’s too much trouble to get out.”

“Young ladies these days…”

I lengthened my gait to match Sensei’s robust stride. The sky was brightening and birds had started chirping. The rain was letting up, but Sensei still gripped his umbrella tightly. As he held it aloft, the two of us walked along the shopping district, keeping a steady pace.

TAKASHI KOJIMA INVITED me to go on a trip with him.

“I know an inn that serves the most amazing food,” he said.

“Amazing food?” I parroted, and Kojima nodded. His expression was like an earnest schoolchild’s. When he was young, he must have looked quite adorable with a botchan haircut, I mused.

“Right about now, the ayu fish is probably in season.”

Hmmm, I replied. A classy inn with delicious cooking. That seemed like just the kind of thing Kojima would suggest.

“What about going to check it out, before the rainy season starts?”

Being with Kojima always brought to mind the word “grown-up.”

What I mean is, when Kojima was in elementary school, he was a child, of course. A suntanned kid with thin little shins. In high school, Kojima had seemed like a sprouting boy, on the verge of casting off his boyhood skin and becoming a young man. By the time he got to college, he must have been a full-fledged young man, the epitome of youth. I can just imagine. Now, having reached his thirties, Kojima was a grown-up. No doubt about it.

His behavior was commensurate with his age. The passage of time had been evenly distributed for Kojima, and both his body and mind had developed proportionately.

I, on the other hand, still might not be considered a proper grown-up. I had been very much the adult when I was in elementary school. But as I continued on through junior high and high school, on the contrary, I became less grown-up. And then as the years passed, I turned into quite a childlike person. I suppose I just wasn’t able to ally myself with time.

“What happens after the rainy season starts?” I asked.

“Well, we’d get wet,” Kojima replied succinctly.

“Not if we used umbrellas,” I said, and he laughed.

“Listen, I’m asking you to go on a trip with me, just the two of us. Did you get that?” Kojima peered into my face as he spoke.

“ Ayu fish, huh?” I was well aware of the fact that Kojima was inviting me on a trip. I also knew that it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to go away with him. So then why was I trying to dodge the question?