Milena Flašar - I Called Him Necktie

20

Defined in that way I was sitting on my bench when he suddenly reappeared, exactly at nine. It was a Thursday, I remember: He arrived hunched over, as if under a heavy load. I thought he’d aged overnight, with wrinkles on his neck as he nodded to me. So there you are. I nodded back. And more than that: I nodded an invitation. To my own amazement I nodded to him, who had aged, and even nodded again when he came towards me, warily, across the frontier, and offered me a cigarette.

Ohara Tetsu. He bowed slightly. Hajimemashite.* You don’t smoke? That’s good. Better not to start at all. It’s an addiction. I need it, you see. He sat down beside me, his briefcase between us. The clicking of the lighter, he puffed away. One of those things I can’t stop. Again I nodded. I’ve tried everything. No use. Can’t get away from it. Don’t have the willpower. I’m sure you know about that. A husky voice, he coughed quietly. In the firm, he continued, everyone smokes. It’s the stress, it never stops. In the firm. He bent down, stubbed out the cigarette. We spent the rest of the morning in silence on our bench.

Now and then someone came by. A mother pushing a stroller. A man limping. A group of truants in crumpled uniforms. The earth was turning, birds were flying. A butterfly landed for a few seconds on the bench across from me. Sitting together we watched as it swooped away. A faint recognition that from now on there was no going back.

21

Kyōko made this, he said, as he unpacked his bento at midday. Karaage* with potato salad. My wife. She’s a wonderful cook. Want some? No? He smiled in embarrassment. You know, she gets up every morning at six o’clock to prepare my bento. For thirty-three years. Every morning at six. And the best thing about it: It tastes wonderful! He rubbed his belly. Almost too good, he hesitated, for someone like me. But I’m lucky, aren’t I? And with that he started eating.

In my inner eye I saw Kyōko, his wife, in her nightgown standing in the kitchen. Sizzling oil. A fleck of marinade on her sleeve. She chops and stirs. Peels. Cuts. Salts. The whole house is filled with the sound of chopping and stirring. Of peeling. Cutting. Salting. He wakes up. Still half asleep he thinks: I’m lucky. He thinks it with a sadness almost unbearable in its infinity: I have damned good luck. He gets up. Goes into the bathroom. Bends over the sink and turns on the cold, very cold, water. Puts his face in it, his hair, his neck. Turns the tap further. Comes up. Turns it off. Stays under. Hears the glugging in the drain. Turns it on. Off. On. Off. Watches how the water separates into drops, the drops into dribbles. A smear of toothpaste on the edge of the sink. White on white. He pushes his finger in and — Kyōko doesn’t know. A faint burp. He spoke as if to himself: Kyōko doesn’t know that I come here. I haven’t told her. Stretched syllables: I ha-ven’t to-ld her that I lo-st my jo-b.

22

The pause afterwards. I had become a confidant. As soon as it was uttered, his secret made us allies. It weighed on my feet, and it was impossible now to get up and go. He had confided in me, me alone. I regarded my shoes, which pinched. Shapeless and worn out. He stretched his heels out half a meter in front of him. Black leather, polished smooth. Father’s shoes, it went through my head. I wonder whether he too sometimes has a longing to confide in someone. With some bitterness I noticed: I knew less about him than about the person whose name I had only discovered barely three hours ago. One more reason to stay sitting beside him and to nod to him over his briefcase and beyond.

It was pretty strange. He continued speaking. It’s not that I didn’t want to tell Kyōko. No, I wanted to. But then I couldn’t bring myself to. Something held me back. Habit, maybe. Gray smoke escaped from his mouth. The habit of getting up early and washing my face. She puts on my tie. As I leave I call out: Have a good day. She calls out: You too. She waves goodbye. At the first bend in the path I turn back towards her. Her figure in front of the house. Like a fluttering flag. I could run back. But there’s the bus coming. I get in. It goes to the station. Onto the express train. To the A. Into the subway. To the O. In its way, it works. I don’t. He was still laughing. It works.

23

And you? What brings you here? I shrugged my shoulders. No idea? Hm, you’re still young. Eighteen? I froze. Nineteen? Twenty? Incredible, so young. You have everything before you. No past. He sighed. Incredible, to have been so young once myself. Although what does that mean? There is only one age for anyone. I was and am, will always be fifty-eight. But you. Be careful what age you end up. It sticks to you. It seals you shut. The age you choose is like glue, it sets around you. This wisdom is not mine, you know. I got it from a book. A movie. I’m not sure. You notice things. It’s incredible. Your whole life you notice things.

As he read the newspaper I considered what he had said. Yet the more I considered it, the What escaped me and instead, the How took hold of me. The weary note that gave the words a bitter taste. Whether young or incredible, both had, the way he said them, acquired a stringent, heavy tone, and both were, as I had heard them, one and the same word. That’s how you speak, I thought, when you have been silent for a long time. All words are the same to you then and you can hardly understand how one differs from another. Whether glue or life, it didn’t make all that much difference.

24

His sleep came suddenly. On page two of the sports section it caught him. Leaning back he’d dozed off, his head bowed. His palms open over a picture of the Giants baseball team. A network of lines. Crossing the heartline. Grimy black print on his right forefinger. Again he looked like a child. Harmless. Vulnerable in his innocence. And again I felt the need to cover him, a natural desire to protect him somehow from harm.

When he woke up it was already past five thirty. Yawning, he stretched and wiped the dust from his eyes. A few more minutes, he said, blinking, then the day will be done. No overtime today. He folded up the newspaper. The nicest thing about working is the coming home. My first words when I come through the door, standing inside the entrance. It smells of garlic and ginger. Freshly steamed vegetables. I stand in the entrance, savor this smell and say: The nicest thing about working is the coming home. Kyōko calls me an idiot. From her it sounds so gentle. No offense meant. Do you understand. She could call me a lot worse things. A liar, a deceiver. And yet it would be with the same tenderness, I really hope, as when she calls me an idiot. Although. I’d rather not know. So long as there is hope, I’d rather not know how it would be if I told her the truth. What’s the point after all? She deserves better than the truth, so much better.

25

Five to six. He straightened his tie. Not too fast. Rather as if he had to restrain himself. A horse in harness, pulling at the reins. Again and again he shook his hand above him, pushed back the shirtsleeve, looked at his watch. I’m going now. Three minutes to six. No, wait a bit. Two minutes to six. Now, really. One minute to six. So then? Till tomorrow? I nodded. He spoke quietly, almost too faint to hear: Thank you so much. A last glance at his wrist. Exactly six. He got up with a jerk. I imitated him. We stood eye to eye, the same height. Goodbye. My voice. After two years of silence it was as translucent as glass. Goodbye. That was it. A crisp conjunction of consonants and vowels. Once more I was mute. Then it shot out of me: My name is Taguchi Hiro. I am twenty years old. Twenty is the age I have chosen. I bowed, awkwardly, stayed in the bow till he had gone. A strange satisfaction: I can still do it. Introduce myself to someone. I have not forgotten. Even though my name might dissolve on my tongue.