Seated by the window, he took a few sips from his cup. The coffee tasted perfectly bitter, like life’s hardships. No, he had no right to savor life like this. He didn’t deserve that. He tried to hold the tears that threatened to overflow. He knew full well that he wasn’t allowed to cry in such a place.
In his mind’s eye, Namikawa saw an inorganic dam. A thoroughly streamlined dam in a remote, unpopulated area in the Northern United States. The dam would discharge its contents little by little before the water could exceed its full capacity. He willed himself to calm down like the surface of the water. He sipped his coffee. A slightly bitter flavor lingered on his tongue, and the hot liquid flowed into his stomach. He imagined the dam discharging. The liquid that had flowed into his body wouldn’t run up to his lacrimal gland, but it would drip into an unknown place. He took out a cigarette and lit it. He sucked in a generous puff and pictured the smoke seeping through his whole body while it was still hot. The heat of the smoke would vaporize the liquid scattered around in his body. After repeating this action several times, he put the cigarette out in the ashtray. He took great care to stub it out until the thin whiff of smoke petered out. When he was done, he put the cigarette pack and the lighter back in his pocket. This routine was something he had perfected over the past two years. Now the cigarette pack had a new design.
“Are you going to sell rakes this year?” A voice jolted him out of his reverie. When he turned, a middle-aged woman stood with an embarrassed smile on her face. “Oh, excuse me. I thought you were someone else.”
“It’s no big deal,” Namikawa answered. His cup made a slight clinking sound when he placed it back on the saucer.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No. I’ve just moved here.”
“I see.”
The woman asked him several questions. How long had he been there? What did he do? Was he married? Where was his hometown? Although they were innocuous questions, Namikawa worried whether or not his answers sounded convincing. The most difficult question was “What on earth brought you to this place?” But Namikawa had prepared an answer beforehand.
“I like towns with a grid plan.” As his lips started forming words smoothly, the tension in his cheek muscles melted away. “So pleasant to walk along grid-like streets. Always easy to figure out which direction I need to go to get to a certain place.” Walking in an orderly town gave him a sense of security like a child held by his mother.
“You’re so intelligent,” the woman summed up. A thin gold necklace shone against her lavender sweater.
“Is that so? Nobody has called me ‘intellectual’ before.”
“No, I meant ‘intelligent,’” the woman corrected him. “It’s a little different from intellectual. You lack emotions.”
Namikawa was frightened rather than taken aback by her frankness. He tried to contain a feeling of distress in his chest by gulping down his coffee, but when he reached for his cup, his hand trembled, making a tinkling sound against the saucer. By leading a life that forced him to suppress his emotions, he’d become a scaredy-cat.
“Do I look like that?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. But you’re not the only one. Look.”
The woman stared at Namikawa with her eyelinered eyes and then rummaged in her purse that hung over her shoulder. She took out several sheets of A4 paper.
“Recently, more and more people have had trouble expressing their feelings,” the woman began. “They tend to think they were born that way, but that’s not really true. Anyone can change through training.”
Namikawa had a close look at the printout the woman had handed him. A speech bubble stemming from America’s first black president read “Yes, we can change!” in a large font. Namikawa felt a bit disdainful and a great relief. It wasn’t that he’d been found out. Even though the woman never ceased chatting and intended to lure him to her self-development seminar, he was grateful. Anyone can change? Start over? It was never too late? She might be right. If you haven’t done anything that altered your life completely, that was. The question was not whether or not it was possible in principle. It was not always possible to start over. Namikawa knew full well that he wasn’t in a position to get a do-over.
“May I?” The woman motioned to sit in front of him.
“Mita-san, that’s enough!” The voice belonged to the proprietress behind the counter. “Stop harassing my customer. Go do it somewhere else.”
The woman pouted and tried talking back, but she asked Namikawa, “I’m not bothering you, am I?”
While he wondered how he’d answer, the proprietress said, “See? He wants you to leave him alone.”
Mrs. Mita hurried to collect her flyer and sat at another table. She seemed to have lain in wait for her prey there. She sipped her now cold cup of coffee a few times before she stood up and proceeded toward the cash register.
“I’m sorry. Not everyone is like that.”
Namikawa found it funny that someone younger had tried to protect him. Perhaps the proprietress thought she was older than Namikawa. He was also impressed. Someone who had made up her mind to set up shop in one place and stay had the right to regard him as an immature man. Namikawa smiled in spite of himself. The proprietress smiled in return, as if to say he had sparked a flame inside her. Now she seemed to want to know where this would lead.
“Oh, sorry,” Namikawa blurted out. “I tend to listen to people.”
“It’s okay. Nobody wants to be around someone who doesn’t listen.”
The proprietress put a slice of chocolate cake down on the table. The dark-brown coating looked alluring. When Namikawa looked up with a puzzled look, she smiled and returned to the counter. Namikawa stabbed a piece of cake with his fork and stuffed it into his mouth. It tasted bittersweet. He wished his life had been like this. He brought his cup to his mouth. It was also bitter like life itself. Namikawa nibbled slowly, glancing toward the counter from time to time. When he finished up his coffee, the proprietress came over and poured another cup. Dogs, elderly people, and cars passed outside the window.
After a while, the sound of a piano drifted from the speakers. The music that had remained in the background suddenly emerged. Eventually, a female vocalist whispered lyrics in English. It was barely audible and seemed almost out of tune, but it was a pleasant voice. Soon, a low male voice overlapped it. He couldn’t make sense of it because it was English, but he heard the phrase “phone call” at the beginning, so he assumed the song had to do with a phone call.
When the song was over, he felt a strong urge to find out the song title. But he was convinced that he wouldn’t. He’d spent his life without doing anything that mattered. That was why he’d ended up like this. Namikawa longed to be rescued and darted his gaze around. Salvation was nowhere in sight.
“What’s the matter?” a voice said. When he turned around, the proprietress was standing right behind him.
“No, nothing. I liked a song, so I wanted to know what it was.”
“Which one?”
“The one with the piano. A female singer whispering.”
“Oh, that one is about a broken heart.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. Her lover cheated on her, and she cried herself to sleep. Something like that.”
“Wow, impressive. Do you speak English?”
With a bemused smile on her face, the proprietress replied, “Would you like me to look it up?”
“No, please don’t bother. I just thought it was a good song.”
“In that case, you should find out.”
The proprietress walked back to the counter. She crouched down and fiddled with the wired radio equipment. After a while, she shouted from the counter, “Sorry. No song name!”
“Let’s search it online, shall we?” she said when she came back to his table.
“But how?”
“I’ll do a search on ‘anonymous call’ and see what comes up.”
She pulled out her phone and touched the screen. But nothing relevant seemed to come up. “Hmm. Nothing.” With a frown, she showed him the search results, mainly tips on how to make an anonymous call.
“Oh, there’s an app that tells you the name of the song you play.” The proprietress began to touch the screen again.
“But it’s not playing anymore,” Namikawa said, trying to stop her.
She pretended to wipe her forehead on her sleeve and rolled her eyes. Her comical gesture made her look younger than her age.
“You’re right. I’ll call the radio station.”
“Please don’t worry. Let’s wait till they play the same song again.”
“Again?” Halfway to the counter, the proprietress stopped, turned, and smiled.
Just as he said, Namikawa began to frequent the café.
For a long time, Namikawa had avoided getting close to someone. It was a delicate task, like sanding the paint on a car. No matter how he tried to hide it, it would show that he was on the run. In this way, Namikawa had led a solitary, suffocating life.
On Wednesdays and Saturdays when he was off from work, Namikawa would go to Kawano Café. About six months later, he discovered that the woman whom he had thought was the proprietress wasn’t a Kawano. Her name was Yuka Kitahara. She managed the place for Mr. Kawano, who rarely showed up. Namikawa had seen the owner only once. He was a gentle-looking old man who exuded delight for having escaped from life’s hardships. An owner of multiple properties, he wasn’t particularly interested in running a café.
Mr. Kawano ended up buying a café when his business acquaintance needed to get rid of his coffee-related equipment. Then he recruited Yuka as manager while she worked part-time for his other business. Also, Namikawa learned that Yuka was a divorcée. She had a son, but she no longer lived with him. Namikawa imagined how she had ended up where she was now. Perhaps she had chosen a career over motherhood. For a private business, Kawano Café was quite successful and seemed destined to be popular in the community for at least the next ten years. The place was worthy of devoting her life to. But perhaps she had another, completely different reason for giving up her son. For instance, maybe she was incapable of loving him. Or maybe she was forced to make the gut-wrenching decision, perhaps because her son was the heir to her ex-husband’s family. At any rate, she had led her life this way for some reason. Namikawa curtailed his curiosity about her past, simply because he, too, desired to keep his past private.
Namikawa came to be known as someone “scientific” among the regulars at Kawano Café. Perhaps he gave them an impression that he was an intellectual type because he hardly talked about himself and used a lot of jargon. Some would ask him about his Nobel Prize predictions. He no longer read technical papers, but he would bring up related subjects. He rejoiced talking about the achievements of scientists who had nothing to do with him.
A year later, Yuka planned to host a small party at Kawano Café on a December day. She would invite only regulars and everyone would chip in some money. It was Akira’s idea. A suntanned firefighter, he was two years junior to Namikawa and one of the three regular customers who were in love with Yuka.
The party started at eight o’clock sharp. As Namikawa passed through the door, only eight regulars greeted him. A few more would join them later.
“What have you got there?” Yuka asked, pointing at the twelve-year-old Glenfiddich bottle Namikawa held in his hand. She was wearing her usual skinny jeans, a Santa Claus-style dress, and a hat to go with it.
“How about putting whiskey in coffee?” Namikawa suggested.
“Oh, I’m up for it.”
Yuka put the bottle on the counter and commented on the dishes everyone had brought. First, Akira’s decorated cake in the hall with a plate that read “Congratulations.” And honey-baked chicken wings from a nearby deli. In addition, there were the turkey feet, crackers, goose patties, bagged sweets, juice box wine, and other savories each regular had brought with them. They weren’t in any kind of harmony, but each dish showed some aspect of each customer. Namikawa was comfortable with the disharmony.
After they emptied two juice boxes of wine and some twenty bottles of beer, it was time for coffee. Yuka turned off the lights and lit an aroma candle brought by Hitomi, a floral arranger. The bustle died down, and the steam from the coffee drifted in the candlelight. It was a pleasant, quiet time.
After they cut the cake and ate it, it was past eleven. All but four people, including Namikawa, had gone home. Those who remained were single men around his age. They put away the remaining liquor, poured whiskey into coffee cups, and started drinking. Eventually, Akira fell asleep on a makeshift bed formed by chairs. Alcohol had turned his perpetually suntanned skin dark. Another customer went home, leaving Namikawa alone with Yuka. The silence had become noticeable.
“Let’s put whiskey into coffee,” Yuka said. She went behind the counter and put a copper kettle on. After a while, the water in the kettle sighed. Yuka put the filter in the dripper with great care. As she tilted the kettle and poured a little, she looked the other way, saying, “Oh, yeah, whiskey.” The dripper tipped over, spilling scalding water over her. Yuka screamed and crouched down, disappearing from Namikawa’s sight. As he rushed to the back of the counter, Yuka was struggling out of her jeans. For a moment, Namikawa wondered if he should go back, but he grabbed a water bottle and poured it over her. When Yuka finished taking off her jeans, she put her foot in the sink and continued to pour water over it. However, the hot water seemed have spilled over both her feet, and she had to alternate her feet. Namikawa embraced Yuka from behind and lifted her up to the sink. Although Yuka seemed distressed for a moment, she focused on cooling her burns with running water.
“How clumsy of me.” As Yuka got off the sink, she muttered with her hands over her face. She checked her feet. Both her shins and left thigh were red, but the burns weren’t too serious. He couldn’t tell if she would blister. Yuka looked up, gazed at Namikawa, and said, “I goofed.” Namikawa didn’t answer. He remembered touching her when he lifted her.
“Cute panties, don’t you think?” Yuka said, pointing to her light-yellow underwear. Her pubis was visible through the wet fabric.
“Yes,” Namikawa replied. After a brief silence, Yuka’s gaze became intense. Namikawa felt his chest tighten, hunched his shoulders, and breathed a deep sigh. Yuka held Namikawa’s face between her hands and slithered her tongue into his mouth. Namikawa let his hands slide between her thighs, his fingertips grazing her moist center.
While holding Yuka’s petite, pale body, Namikawa imagined the dam—the imaginary dam that had kept his mind from overflowing. The dam began releasing water. A large river flowed downstream of the dam, and a vast prairie spread along the riverbank. The water volume would increase a little, but it presented no problem since no houses were in the basin. The water level of the dam decreased, and the bottom gradually became visible. Dead trees and giant rocks appeared, but no man-made objects were in sight. As the water decreased, the discharge weakened. At the same time, the lees that had accumulated on the riverbed were washed away. Eventually, the water ran out.
Namikawa and Yuka put on only their underwear and talked about her feet while they remained seated on the floor behind the counter. They kissed several times. Yuka’s mouth exuded a faint aroma of wine. She hinted she felt shame about having acted on impulse while, at the same time, she rejoiced in being reciprocated. Namikawa honestly said, “I’m glad.” It’d been a long time since he had expressed joy. Namikawa searched for something else to say. A rattling noise of the chairs reached from across the counter. Then someone opened the door and left. Maybe Akira had woken up and gone home.
“We’ve been bad, haven’t we?” Yuka muttered.
“There’s nothing bad about this,” Namikawa said.
Yuka smiled. However, she probably misunderstood what he said. He didn’t mean to tell her to count her blessings. He meant bad things did exist in the world.
Yuka hung her jeans to dry out and tied a few aprons around her waist as a makeshift skirt. She brewed coffee again, and they sipped it next to the counter. Yuka’s burns weren’t serious. Time crawled almost to a halt. Water gradually accumulated in the dam in his mind.
Then that same song from long ago drifted from the wired radio. After one musical bar, he knew it was the song he had been waiting for. “Yuka-san. This is it.”
Yuka glanced up at the speakers embedded in the ceiling and seemed to focus on making sense of the lyrics. Namikawa understood only bits and pieces like bed, phone, and cry, but he didn’t know what the song was about. Yuka held her breath and listened, turning her gaze toward Namikawa only during the interlude. The female singer’s whispering voice evoked melancholy and desolation.
“It’s about a broken heart,” muttered Yuka. “Do you want to know what it’s about?”
“Of course.” He gently placed his hand on her shoulder.
“Are you sure? Right now? A heartbreak song? Don’t you think it’ll jinx us?”
Yuka flashed a mischievous smile. As Namikawa faltered, Yuka drank up her coffee and started explaining the lyrics: “One night, a man gets a phone call. The caller doesn’t give his name. In a low, gentle voice, he tells the man that the love of his life is seeing someone else, that she’s a cheating slut. The man falls down in bed and cries all night. When this love ends, I’m going to die. Please tell me it’s not true. Some jealous man is trying to trick me. Please tell me our love is real.”
“It’s a very honest song,” Namikawa commented.
“Have you experienced such love?” Yuka said with her elbows on the counter. “Have you ever loved someone so much and bawled all night after breaking up with her?”
“No.”
“I’ve been there.” Yuka took a cigarette out of Namikawa’s pocket and lit it. “Like now. In a week, you’ll forget about me. One day you’ll remember you slept with an older divorcée. I can cry just thinking about it.”
Tears had filled Yuka’s eyes. The dam in the Northern United States was supposed to catch such sadness. Namikawa just used it for himself.
“I love you, Yuka-san.”
Yuka covered her face. Then she inhaled smoke and quickly put the cigarette out.
“I want to be like this forever, but I’ve got to get ready for tomorrow.”
Yuka got up. She seemed to be suppressing her emotions. She was probably thinking about her son who no longer lived with her. Mothers wouldn’t give up their children unless there was a good reason. She had no choice but to live apart from her son. Namikawa had no right to know what she felt.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Let’s have a long chat soon,” Namikawa said, getting up. He hugged Yuka and kissed her. “Akira must be the one crying all night.”
Yuka chuckled.
*
Namikawa left the café and headed for a roundabout in front of the station to catch a cab. It was a good twenty minutes on foot. The streets were neatly arranged in a grid pattern, with paving stones reflecting the streetlights. The whiteness of the stones floated in the crisp winter air.
Namikawa took out his phone and searched “Shizuoka Prefectural Police number.” Next to the displayed number, a “Call” button appeared. When he pressed it, a message popped up on the screen: “Close this app and make a call?” He pressed the “Call” button. A series of beeps reached his ears. As soon as the call went through, a man’s voice said, “This is Shizuoka Prefectural Police.”
“Well, may I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“In 2007, was there a hit-and-run accident in Hamamatsu?”
“Excuse me?”
“In Inasa District. By the river.”
“Eh, what are you talking about?”
“Well, I might have run over someone, so I want to find out.”
“Oh,” the police officer said with a pause. “Are you drunk?”
“Yes, I’m drunk, but I do want to know. It was on October 22, 2007. About three in the morning. Maybe it was the next day.”
“Can you wait a minute? Please stay on the line,” the officer said. He seemed to be talking with his colleague. A few minutes later, the voice came back on the line. “Can you give me your name, address, and phone number?”
“If it takes time, could you call me back?”
“If there really was an accident, that won’t be possible.”
Namikawa hung up. Surely, the officer would call back soon. He arrived at the deserted bus terminal and sat down on a bench. While he gazed at the pavement illuminated by the streetlights, an old memory flashed through his mind. Dead-drunk, he felt invincible getting into his car. A figure flickered for a brief moment in the dark. Feeling a blunt thud as he hit a large object. Flooring the gas pedal. A dent in the front bumper. Stopping by at a body shop for a repair job. Telling a mechanic that he ran over a deer. Throwing up while wishing it were a deer. Running away from Hamamatsu. Moving from town to town across Northern Kanto and Tohoku. While on the run, he always thought about the dam. Everything seemed in vain. After many detours, he had, at last, arrived at the place where he should be.
Fifteen minutes or so later, his phone rang. “Unknown” flashed across the screen. As he heard the ringtone, he imagined the dam crumbling. At any rate, he no longer needed such a thing.
