South of the Border, West of the Sun

8

For ten days or so after the feature article with my name and photo appeared in Brutus, old acquaintances dropped by the bar to see me. Junior high and high school classmates. Up till then, I’d always wondered who on earth would possibly read all those magazines piled up at the front of every bookstore. But once I myself was featured in one, I discovered that more people than I’d ever imagined were glued to magazines. In hair salons, banks, coffee shops, trains, every place imaginable, people had magazines open in front of them, as if possessed. Maybe people are afraid they’ll have nothing to kill time with, so they just pick up whatever happens to be on hand. Beats me.

Anyway, I can’t say it was the most thrilling thing in the world to see these faces from the past. Not that I didn’t like talking with them. It put me in a pleasant, nostalgic mood. And they seemed happy to see me. But frankly I couldn’t care less about the subjects they brought up. How our old hometown had changed, what other classmates were up to now. As if I cared. I was too far removed from that place and time. Besides, everything they talked about brought back memories of Izumi. Every mention of my hometown made me picture her alone in that bleak apartment. She’s no longer attractive, my friend had said. The kids are afraid of her. I couldn’t get those two lines out of my head. And the fact that Izumi never forgave me.

I’d just wanted to give the bar a little free publicity, but not long after the article came out, I began seriously to regret allowing the magazine to report on it. The last thing I wanted was for Izumi to see the article. How would she feel if she saw me, blithely living a happy life, seemingly unscarred by our past?

A month later, though, the cast of old friends had petered out. Guess that’s one point in favor of magazines: You have your moment of fame, then poof! you’re forgotten. I breathed a sigh of relief. At least Izumi didn’t show. She wasn’t a Brutus subscriber, after all.

But a couple of weeks after that, after all the hubbub of the article had been forgotten, the last friend showed up.

Shimamoto.

It was the evening of the first Monday in November. And there, at the counter of the Robin’s Nest (the name of the jazz club, the title of an old tune I liked), she sat, quietly sipping a daiquiri. I was at the same counter, three seats down, completely oblivious to the fact that it was her. I’d observed that an extremely beautiful woman had come into the bar, but that was all. A new customer; I made a mental note. If I had seen her before, I would have remembered; that’s how outstanding she was. Before long, I figured, whoever she was waiting for would show up. Not that women never drank alone in the bar. Some single women seem to expect that men will put the moves on them; others seem more to be hoping for it I could always tell which was which. But a woman this beautiful would not be out drinking alone. A woman like this wasn’t the type to be thrilled by men making advances. She’d just find it a pain.

That’s why I wasn’t paying much attention to her. Sure, I checked her out when she first came in and gave her a glance every once in a while. She wore just a touch of makeup, and a pricey-looking outfit–a blue silk dress, with a light-beige cashmere cardigan. A cardigan as delicate-looking as an onion skin. And on the counter she’d placed a handbag that matched her dress perfectly. I couldn’t guess her age. Just the right age, was all I could say.

Her beauty took your breath away, but I didn’t figure her for a movie star or a model. Those types did frequent my bar, but you could always tell they were conscious of being on public display, the unbearable meness of being clinging to the air around them. But this woman was different. She was completely relaxed, totally at ease with her surroundings. She rested her chin in her hands on the counter, absorbed in the piano trio’s music, all the while sipping her cocktail as if lingering over a particularly well-turned phrase. Every few minutes, she glanced in my direction. I could sense it, physically. Though I was positive she wasn’t really looking at me.

I had on my usual outfit—Luciano Soprani suit, Armani shirt and tie. Rossetti shoes. Believe it or not, I wasn’t the type to worry about clothes. My basic rule was to spend the bare minimum on them. Outside of work, jeans and a sweater did me fine. But I did have my own little philosophy of doing business: I wore the kind of clothes I wanted my customers to wear. Doing so, I found, put the staff just that much more on their toes and created the sort of elevated mood I was aiming for. So every time I came to the bar, I made absolutely sure to wear a nice suit and tie.

There I sat, then, checking to make sure the cocktails were mixed correctly, keeping an eye on the customers, and listening to the piano trio. At first the bar was fairly packed, but after nine it started raining, and the number of customers tailed off. By ten only a handful of the tables were occupied. But the woman at the counter was still there, alone with her daiquiris. I started to wonder about her more. Maybe she wasn’t waiting for someone, after all. Not once did she glance at her watch or at the entrance.

Finally she picked up her bag and stepped down from her stool. It was nearly eleven. If you wanted to take the subway home, now was the time to get a move on. Slowly, ever so casually, though, she made her way over to me and sat on the adjacent stool. I caught a faint whiff of perfume. Settling down on the stool, she took a pack of Salems from her bag and put one in her mouth. I caught all this out of the corner of my eye.

“What a lovely bar,” she said to me.

I looked up from the book I’d been reading and looked at her uncomprehendingly. Just then something hit me—hard. As if the air suddenly lay heavy on my chest.

“Thanks,” I said. She must have known I was the owner. “I’m happy you like it.”

“I do, very much.” She looked deep into my eyes and smiled. A wonderful smile. Her lips spread wide, and small, fetching lines formed at the corners of her eyes. Her smile stirred deep memories—but of what?

“I like your music too.” She pointed to the piano trio. “Do you have a light?” she asked.

I had neither matches nor a lighter. I called to the bartender and had him bring over a book of the bar’s matches. And I lit her cigarette for her.

“Thanks,” she said.

I looked at her straight on. And I finally understood.

“Shimamoto,” I rasped.

“It took you long enough,” she said after a while, a funny look in her eyes. “I thought maybe you’d never notice.”

I sat there speechless, gawking at her as though I were in the presence of some high-tech precision machinery I’d only heard rumors of. It was indeed Shimamoto in front of me. But I couldn’t yet grasp the reality of it. I’d been thinking of her for so very, very long. And I was sure I’d never see her again.

“I love your suit,” she said. “It’s quite becoming.”

I nodded wordlessly. The words just wouldn’t flow.

“Know something, Hajime? You’re much handsomer than you used to be. And a lot better built.”

“I swim a lot,” I finally managed to say. “I started in junior high, and I’ve been swimming ever since.”

“Swimming looks like so much fun. I’ve always thought so.”

“It is. But if you practice, anyone can learn, you know,” I said. As soon as the words left my mouth, I remembered her leg. What the hell are you talking about? I asked myself. I was flustered, fumbling for the right thing to say. But the words eluded me. I rummaged around in my suit pockets for a pack of cigarettes. And then remembered. I’d quit smoking five years before.

Shimamoto watched me silently. She raised her hand and ordered another daiquiri, giving the biggest smile. A truly beautiful smile. The kind of smile that made you want to wrap up the whole picture for safekeeping.

“You still like blue, I see,” I said.

“Yes. I always have. You have a good memory.”

“I remember almost everything about you: the way you sharpen your pencils, the number of lumps of sugar you put in your tea.”

“And how many would that be?”

“Two.”

She narrowed her eyes a bit and looked at me.

“Tell me something, Hajime,” she began. “That time about eight years ago—why did you follow me?”

I sighed. “I couldn’t tell if it was you or not. The way you walked was exactly the same. But there was also something about it that didn’t seem like you. I tailed you because I wasn’t sure. Tailed isn’t the right word. I was just looking for the right moment to talk with you.”

“Then why didn’t you? Why didn’t you just come right out and see if it was me? That would have been faster.”

“I don’t know, myself,” I answered. “Something held me back. My voice just wouldn’t work.”

She bit her lip a little. “I didn’t notice then that it was you. All I could think was that someone was following me, and I was afraid. Really. I was terrified. But once I got in the cab and had a chance to calm down, it came to me. Could that have been Hajime?”

“Shimamoto-san, I was given something then. I don’t know what relationship you have with that person, but he gave me—”

She put her index finger to her lips. And lightly shook her head. Let’s not talk about that all right? she seemed to be saying. Please, don’t ever bring it up again.

“You’re married?” she asked, changing the subject

“With two kids,” I replied. “Both girls. They’re still little.”

“That’s great. I think daughters suit you. I can’t explain why, but they do.”

“I wonder.”

“Yes—somehow.” She smiled. “But at least you didn’t have an only child.”

“Not that I planned it. It just turned out that way.”

“What does it feel like? I wonder. To have two daughters.”

“Frankly, a little strange. More than half the children in my older girl’s nursery school are only children. The world’s changed since we were kids. In the city, only children have become more the rule, not the exception.”

“You and I were born too soon.”

“Maybe so,” I said. “Perhaps the world’s drawing closer to us. Sometimes when I see the two of them playing together at home, I’m amazed. A whole other way of raising children. When I was a child, I always played alone. I thought that was how all kids played.”

The piano trio wound up its version of “Corcovado,” and the customers gave them a hand. As always, as the night wore on, the trio’s playing grew warmer, more intimate. Between numbers the pianist drank red wine, while the bassist smoked.

Shimamoto sipped her cocktail. “You know, Hajime, I wasn’t at all sure at first whether I should come here. I agonized over it for nearly a month. I found out about your bar in some magazine I was leafing through. I thought it must be a mistake. You of all people running a bar! But there was your name, and your photograph. Good old Hajime from the old neighborhood. I was happy I could see you again, even if it was in a photograph. But I wasn’t sure if meeting you in person was a good idea. Maybe it was better for both of us if we didn’t. Maybe it was enough knowing you were happy and doing well.”

I listened to her in silence.

“But since I knew where you were, it seemed like a waste not to at least come see you once, so here I am. I sat down over there and watched you. If he doesn’t notice me, I thought, maybe I’ll just leave without saying anything. But I couldn’t stand it. It brought back so many memories, and I had to say hello.”

“Why?” I asked. “I mean, why did you think it was better not to meet me?”

Tracing the rim of her cocktail glass with her finger, she was lost in thought “I thought if I met you you’d want to know all about me. Whether I was married, where I lived, what I’d been up to, those kinds of things. Am I right?”

“Well, I’m sure those would come up.”

“Of course.”

“But you’d rather not talk about those?”

She smiled perplexedly and nodded. She had a million different variations on a smile. “That’s right. I don’t want to talk about those things. Please don’t ask me why. I just don’t want to talk about myself. I know it’s unnatural, that it’s like I’m putting on airs, trying to be a mysterious lady of the night or something. That’s why I thought maybe I shouldn’t see you. I didn’t want you to think I was some strange, conceited woman. That’s one reason I didn’t want to come here.”

“And the other?”

“I didn’t want to be disappointed.”

I looked at the glass in her hand. I looked at her straight shoulder-length hair and at her nicely formed thin lips. And at her endlessly deep dark eyes. A small line just above her eyelids caused her to look thoughtful. That line made me imagine a far-off horizon.

“I used to like you very much, so I didn’t want to meet you just to be disappointed.”

“Have I disappointed you?”

She shook her head slightly. “I was watching you from over there. At first you looked like somebody else. You were so much bigger with a suit on. But when I looked closer, I could make out the Hajime I used to know. Do you realize that your movements have hardly changed since you were twelve?”

“I didn’t know that.” I tried to smile but couldn.’t

“The way you move your hands, your eyes, the way you’re always tapping something with your fingertips, the way you knit your eyebrows like you’re displeased about something—these haven’t changed a bit. Underneath the Armani suit it’s the same old Hajime.”

“Not Armani,” I corrected her. “The shirt and tie are, but the suit’s not.”

She smiled at me.

“Shimamoto-san,” I began. “You know, I wanted to see you for the longest time. To talk with you. I had so many things I wanted to tell you.”

“I wanted to see you too,” she said. “But you never came. You realize that, don’t you? After you went off to junior high in another town, I waited for you. Why didn’t you come? I was really sad. I thought you’d made new friends in your new place and had forgotten all about me.”

Shimamoto crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray. She had clear lacquer on her nails. They were like some exquisitely made handicraft, shiny but understated.

“I was afraid, that’s why,” I said.

“Afraid?” she asked. “Afraid of what? Of me?”

“No. Not of you. I was afraid of rejection. I was still a child. I couldn’t imagine that you were actually waiting for me. I was terrified you would reject me. That I would come to your house to see you and you couldn’t be bothered. So I stopped coming. If I was going to get hurt, I thought it would be better to go on living with the happy memories of when we were together.”

She tilted her head slightly and rolled a cashew nut in her hand. “Things don’t work out easily, do they?”

“No, they don’t.”

“But we were meant to be friends for a much longer time. I went all the way through junior high, high school, even college, without making a friend. I was always alone. I imagined how wonderful it would be to have you by my side. If you couldn’t actually be there, at least we could write to each other. Things would have been a lot different. I could have stood up to life better.” She was silent for a time. “I don’t know why, exactly, but after I entered junior high, school life went downhill. And that made me close in on myself even more. A vicious circle, you could call it.”

I nodded.

“Up to elementary school I did fine, but after that it was awful. It was like I was stuck inside a well.”

I knew the feeling. That was just how I felt about the eight years of my life between college and marrying Yukiko. One thing goes wrong, then the whole house of cards collapses. And there’s no way you can extricate yourself. Until someone comes along to drag you out.

“I had this bad leg and couldn’t do what other people do. I just read books and kept to myself. And I stand out. My looks, I mean. So most people ended up thinking I’m a twisted, arrogant woman. And maybe that’s who I became.”

“Well, you are a knockout,” I said. She put another cigarette between her lips. I struck a match and lit it.

“You really think I’m pretty?” she asked.

“Yes. But you must hear that all the time.”

Shimamoto smiled. “Not really. Actually, I’m not that wild about my face. So I’m very happy you said that. Unfortunately, other women don’t like me much. Many’s the time I thought this: I don’t want people to say I’m pretty. I just want to be an ordinary girl and make friends like everyone else.”

She reached out a hand and lightly brushed mine on the counter. “But I’m happy that you’re enjoying life.”

I was silent.

“You are happy, aren’t you?” she asked.

“I don’t know. At least I’m not unhappy, and I’m not lonely.” A moment later, I added, “But sometimes the thought strikes me that the happiest time of my life was when we were together in your living room, listening to music.”

“You know, I still have those records. Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby, Rossini, the Peer Gynt Suite, and all the others. Every single one. A keepsake from my father when he died. I take good care of them, so even now they don’t have a single scratch. And you remember how carefully I took care of records.”

“So your father died.”

“Five years ago, cancer of the colon. A horrible way to go. And he’d always been so healthy.”

I’d met her father a few times. He always struck me as being tough as the oak tree that grew in their garden.

“Is your mother well?” I asked.

“Hmm. I guess so.”

Her tone of voice bothered me. “You don’t get along with her, then?”

Shimamoto finished her daiquiri, put the glass on the counter, and called the bartender over. “Do you have any special house cocktail you’d recommend?”

“We have several original cocktails,” I said. “The most popular one’s Robin’s Nest, after the bar. A little thing I whipped up myself. You use rum and vodka as a base. It’s easy going down, but it packs a wallop.”

“Sounds good for wooing women.”

“Well, I thought that was the whole point of cocktails.”

She smiled. “Okay, I’ll try one.”

When the cocktail was placed in front of her, she gazed at the color, then took a tentative sip. She closed her eyes and let the flavor take over. “It’s a very subtle taste, isn’t it,” she said. “Not exactly sweet or tart. A light, simple flavor, but with some body. I had no idea you were so talented.”

“I can’t build a simple shelf. I have no idea how to change an oil filter on a car. I can’t even paste on a postage stamp straight. And I’m always dialing the wrong number. But I have come up with a few original cocktails that people seem to like.”

She rested her glass on a coaster and looked at it for a while. When she tipped the glass, the reflection of the overhead lights shivered slightly.

“I haven’t seen my mother for a long time. There was a blowup about ten years ago, and I’ve barely seen her since. Of course, we did see each other at my father’s funeral.”

The piano trio finished an original blues number and began the intro to “Star-Crossed Lovers.” When I was in the bar, the pianist would often strike up that ballad, knowing it was a favorite of mine. It wasn’t one of Ellington’s best-known tunes, and I had no particular memories associated with it; just happened to hear it once, and it struck some chord within me. From college to those bleak textbook-company years, come evening I’d listen to the Such Sweet Thunder album, the “Star-Crossed Lovers” track over and over. Johnny Hodges had this sensitive and elegant solo on it. Whenever I heard that languid, beautiful melody, those days came back to me. It wasn’t what I’d characterize as a happy part of my life, living as I was, a balled-up mass of unfulfilled desires. I was much younger, much hungrier, much more alone. But I was myself, pared down to the essentials. I could feel each single note of music, each line I read, seep down deep inside me. My nerves were sharp as a blade, my eyes shining with a piercing light. And every time I heard that music, I recalled my eyes then, glaring back at me from a mirror.

“You know,” I said, “once, when I was in the last year of junior high, I did go to see you. I felt so lonely I couldn’t stand it any longer. I tried calling you, but there was no answer. I rode the train over to your place, but someone else’s name was on the mailbox.”

“My father was transferred, and we moved two years after you did. To Fujisawa, near Enoshima. And that’s where we remained until I went to college. I sent you a postcard with our new address on it. You never got it?”

I shook my head. “If I had, I would have written back. Strange, though. Must have been some slipup somewhere along the line.”

“Or maybe we’re just unlucky,” she said. “Lots of slipups, and we end up missing each other. But anyway, I want to hear about you. What kind of life you’ve had.”

“It’ll bore you to tears,” I said.

“I don’t care. I still want to hear it.”

So I gave her a general recap of my life. How I’d had a girlfriend in high school but ended up hurting her badly. I spared her the gory details. I explained how something had happened and I had hurt this girl. And in the process ended up hurting myself. How I went to college in Tokyo and worked at a textbook company. How my twenties were filled with friendless, lonely days. I went out with women but was never happy. How from the time I graduated from high school until I met Yukiko and got married, I never really liked anyone. How I thought of her often then, thought how great it would be if we could see each other, even for an hour, and talk. Shimamoto smiled.

“You thought about me?”

“All the time.”

“I thought about you too,” she said. “Whenever I felt bad. You were the only friend I’ve ever had, Hajime.” Her chin resting in one hand propped up on the bar, she closed her eyes as if all the strength had been drained from her body. She didn’t wear any rings. The down on her arms trembled. At last she slowly opened her eyes and looked at her watch. I looked at it too. It was nearly midnight.

She picked up her handbag and slipped off the stool. “Good night. I’m happy I could see you.”

I saw her to the door. “Shall I call you a cab? It’s raining, so it might be hard to grab one. If you’re thinking of going home by cab, that is.”

Shimamoto shook her head. “It’s all right. Don’t go to any trouble. I can take care of myself.”

“You really weren’t disappointed?” I asked.

“In you?”

“Yes.”

“No, I wasn’t” She smiled. “Rest easy. But that suit—it is an Armani, isn’t it?”

She wasn’t dragging her leg the way she used to. She didn’t move very quickly, and if you looked closely, there was something vaguely artificial about the way she walked. Though overall it looked perfectly natural.

“I had an operation four years ago,” she said almost apologetically. “I wouldn’t say it’s a hundred percent but it’s certainly not as bad as it used to be. It was a big operation, with a lot of scraping of bones, patching them together. But things went well.”

“That’s great. Your leg looks fine now,” I said.

“It is,” she said. “Probably it was a good decision. Though maybe I waited too long.”

I got her coat from the cloakroom and helped her into it Standing next to me, she wasn’t very tall. It seemed strange. When we were twelve, we were about the same height

“Shimamoto-san. Will I see you again?”

“Probably,” she replied. A smile played around her mouth. A smile like a small wisp of smoke drifting quietly skyward on a windless day. “Probably.”

She opened the door and went out. Five minutes later, I went up the stairs to the street. I was worried she’d had trouble flagging down a cab. It was still raining. And Shimamoto was nowhere to be seen. The street was deserted. The headlights of passing cars blurred the wet pavement.

Maybe I had had an illusion, I thought I stood there a long time, gazing at the rainswept streets. Once again I was a twelve-year-old boy staring for hours at the rain. Look at the rain long enough, with no thoughts in your head, and you gradually feel your body falling loose, shaking free of the world of reality. Rain has the power to hypnotize.

But this had been no illusion. When I went back into the bar, a glass and an ashtray remained where she had been. A couple of lightly crushed cigarette butts were lined up in the ashtray, a faint trace of lipstick on each. I sat down and closed my eyes. Echoes of music faded away, leaving me alone. In that gentle darkness, the rain continued to fall without a sound.