South Of The Border, West Of The Sun Part 10

14.

She wore a white dress and an oversize navy-blue jacket. A small fish-shaped silver brooch graced the collar of her jacket. The dress was simple in design, with no decorations of any kind, yet on her, you'd swear it was the world's most expensive dress. She was more tanned than the last time I'd seen her.

"I thought you'd never come here again," I said.

"Every time I see you, you say the same thing," she said, laughing. As always, she sat down next to me at the bar and rested both hands on the counter. "But I did write you a note saying I wouldn't be back for a while, didn't I?"

"For a while is a phrase whose length can't be measured. At least by the person who's waiting," I said. is a phrase whose length can't be measured. At least by the person who's waiting," I said.

"But there must be times when that word's necessary. Situations when that's the only possible word you can use," she said.

"And probably probably is a word whose weight is incalculable." is a word whose weight is incalculable."

"You're right," she said, her face lit up by her usual smile, a gentle breeze blowing from somewhere far away. "I apologize. I'm not trying to excuse myself, but there was nothing I could do about it. Those were the only words I could have used."

"No need to apologize. As I told you once, this is a bar, and you're a customer. You come here when you want to. I'm used to it. I'm just mouthing off to myself. Pay no attention."

She called the bartender over and ordered a c.o.c.ktail. She looked closely at me, as if inspecting me. "You're dressed pretty casually for a change."

"I went swimming this morning and haven't changed. I haven't had time," I said. "But I kind of like it. I feel this is the real me again."

"You look younger. No one would guess you're thirty-seven."

"You don't look thirty-seven, either."

"But I don't look twelve."

"True enough," I said.

Her c.o.c.ktail arrived, and she took a sip. And gently closed her eyes as if listening to some far-off sound. With her eyes closed, I could once more make out the small line just above her eyelids.

"Hajime," she said, "I've been thinking about your bar's c.o.c.ktails. I really wanted to have one. No matter where you go, you can never find drinks like the ones here."

"Did you go somewhere far away?"

"Why do you say that?" she asked.

"Something about you," I replied. "A certain air. Like you've been gone for some time far away."

She looked up at me. And nodded. "Hajime, for a long time I've....," she began, but fell suddenly silent as if reminded of something. I could tell she was searching inside herself for the right words. Which she couldn't find. She bit her lip and smiled once more. "Anyhow, I'm sorry. I should have got in touch with you. But I wanted to leave certain things as they are. Preserved, so to speak. Either I come here or I don't. When I do come here, I do. When I don't ... I'm somewhere else."

"There's no middle ground?"

"No middle ground," she said. "Why? Because no middle-ground things exist there."

"In a place where there are no middle-ground objects, no middle ground exists," I said.

"Exactly."

"In a place where no dogs exist, there are no doghouses, in other words."

"Yes; no dogs, no doghouses," Shimamoto said. And she looked at me in a funny way. "You have a strange sense of humor, do you know that?"

As it often did, the piano trio began playing "Star-Crossed Lovers." For a while the two of us sat there, listening silently.

"Mind if I ask you one question?"

"Not at all," I said.

"What's the deal with you and this song?" she asked. "Every time you're here, it seems, they play that number. A house rule of some sort?"

"No. They just know I like it."

"It is a beautiful song."

I nodded. "It took me a long time to figure out how complex it is, how there's so much more to it than just a pretty melody. It takes a special kind of musician to play it right," I said. "Duke Ellington and Billy Strayhorn wrote it a long time ago. Fifty-seven, I believe."

"When they say 'star-crossed,' what do they mean?"

"You know-lovers born under an unlucky star. Unlucky lovers. Here it's referring to Romeo and Juliet. Ellington and Strayhorn wrote it for a performance at the Ontario Shakespeare Festival. In the original recording, Johnny Hodges' alto sax was Juliet, and Paul Gonsalves played the Romeo part on tenor sax."

"Lovers born under an unlucky star," she said. "Sounds like it was written for the two of us."

"You mean we're lovers?"

"You think we're not?"

I looked at her. She wasn't smiling anymore. I could make out a faint glimmer deep within her eyes.

"Shimamoto-san, I don't know anything about you," I said. "Every time I look in your eyes, I feel that. The most I can say about you is how you were at age twelve. The Shimamoto-san who lived in the neighborhood and was in my cla.s.s. But that was twenty-five years ago. The Twist was in, and people still rode in streetcars. No ca.s.sette tapes, no tampons, no bullet train, no diet food. I'm talking long ago. Other than what I know about you then, I'm in the dark."

"Is that what you see in my eyes? That you know nothing about me?"

"Nothing's written in your eyes," I replied. "It's written in my my eyes. I just see the reflection in yours." eyes. I just see the reflection in yours."

"Hajime," she said, "I know I should be telling you more. I do. There's nothing I can do about it. So please don't say anything further."

"Like I said, I'm just mouthing off to myself. Don't give it a second thought."

She raised a hand to her collar and fingered the fish brooch. And quietly listened to the piano trio. When their performance ended, she clapped and took a sip of her c.o.c.ktail. Finally she let out a long sigh and turned to me. "Six months is a long time," she said. "But most likely, probably, I'll be able to come here for a while."

"The old magic words," I said.

"Magic words?"

"Probably and and for a while for a while."

She smiled and looked at me. She took a cigarette out of her small bag and lit it with a lighter.

"Sometimes when I look at you, I feel I'm gazing at a distant star," I said. "It's dazzling, but the light is from tens of thousands of years ago. Maybe the star doesn't even exist anymore. Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything."

Shimamoto said nothing.

"You're here," I continued. "At least you look as if you're here. But maybe you aren't. Maybe it's just your shadow. The real you may be someplace else. Or maybe you already disappeared, a long, long time ago. I reach out my hand to see, but you've hidden yourself behind a cloud of probablys probablys. Do you think we can go on like this forever?"

"Possibly. For the time being," she answered.

"I see I'm not the only one with a strange sense of humor," I said. And smiled.

She smiled too. The rain has stopped, without a sound there's a break in the clouds, and the very first rays of sunlight shine through-that kind of smile. Small, warm lines at the corners of her eyes, holding out the promise of something wonderful.

"Hajime," she said, "I brought you a present."

She pa.s.sed me a beautifully wrapped package with a red bow.

"Looks like a record," I said, gauging its size and shape.

"It's a Nat King Cole record. The one we used to listen to together. Remember? I'm giving it to you."

"Thanks. But don't you want it? As a keepsake from your father?"

"I have more. This one's for you."

I gazed at the record, wrapped and beribboned. Before long, all the sounds around me-the clamor of the people at the bar, the piano trio's music-all faded in the distance, as if the tide had gone out. Only she and I remained. Everything else was an illusion, papier-mache props on a stage. What existed, what was real, was the two of us.

"Shimamoto-san," I said, "what do you say we go somewhere and listen to this together?"

"That would be wonderful," she said.

"I have a small cottage in Hakone. It's empty now, and there's a stereo there. This time of night, we could drive there in an hour and a half."

She looked at her watch. And then at me. "You want to go there now?"

"Yes," I said.

She narrowed her eyes. "But it's already past ten. If we went to Hakone now, it would be very late when we came back. Don't you mind?"

"No. Do you?"

Once more she looked at her watch. And closed her eyes for a good ten seconds. When she reopened them, her face was filled with an entirely new expression, as if she'd gone far away, left something there, and returned. "All right," she said. "Let's go."

I called to the acting manager and asked him to take care of things in my absence-lock up the register, organize the receipts, and deposit the profits in the bank's night deposit box. I walked over to my condo and drove the BMW out of the underground garage. And called my wife from a nearby telephone booth, telling her I was off to Hakone.

"At this hour?" she said, surprised. "Why do you have to go all the way to Hakone at this hour?"

"There's something I need to think over," I said.

"So you won't be back tonight?"

"Probably not."

"Honey, I've been thinking over what happened, and I'm really sorry. You were right I got rid of all the stock. So why don't you come on home?"

"Yukiko, I'm not angry at you. Not at all. Forget about that I just want some time to think. Give me one night, okay?"

She said nothing for a while. Then: "All right." She sounded exhausted. "Go ahead to Hakone. But be careful driving. It's raining."

"I will."

"There's so much I don't understand," my wife said. "Tell me one thing: am I in your way?"

"Not at all," I replied. "It has nothing to do with you. If anything, the problem's with me. So don't worry about it, okay? I just want some time to think."

I hung up and drove to the bar. I could tell from Yukiko's voice that she'd been mulling over our lunchtime conversation. She was tired, confused. It saddened me. The rain was still falling hard. I let Shimamoto into the car.

"Isn't there someplace you need to call before we go?" I asked.

Silently she shook her head. And, as she did on the way back from Haneda Airport, she pressed her face against the gla.s.s and stared at the scenery.

There was little traffic on the way to Hakone. I got off the Tomei Highway at Atsugi and headed straight to Odawara on the expressway. I kept our speed between eighty and ninety miles per hour. The rain came down in sheets from time to time, but I knew every curve and hill along the way. After we got on the highway, Shimamoto and I said hardly a word. I played a Mozart quartet quietly and kept my eyes on the road. Shimamoto was lost in thought as she looked out the window. Occasionally she'd glance over at me. Whenever she did, my throat went dry. Forcing myself to relax, I swallowed a couple of times.

"Hajime," she said. We were near Kouzu. "You don't listen to jazz much outside the bar?"

"No, I don't. Mostly cla.s.sical music."

"How come?"

"I guess because jazz is part of my job. Outside the club, I like to listen to something different. Sometimes rock too, but hardly ever jazz."

"What type of music does your wife listen to?"

"Usually whatever I'm listening to. She hardly ever plays any records on her own. I'm not even sure if she knows how to use the turntable."

Shimamoto reached over to the ca.s.sette case and pulled out a couple of tapes. One of them contained the children's songs my daughters and I sang together in the car. "The Doggy Policeman," "Tulip"-the j.a.panese equivalent of Barney's Greatest Hits. From her expression as she gazed at the ca.s.sette and its picture of Snoopy on the cover, you'd think she'd discovered a relic from outer s.p.a.ce.

Again she turned to gaze at me. "Hajime," she said after a while. "When I look at you driving, sometimes I want to grab the steering wheel and give it a yank. It'd kill us, wouldn't it."

"We'd die, all right. We're going eighty miles an hour."

"You'd rather not die with me?"

"I can think of more pleasant ways to go." I laughed. "And besides, we haven't listened to the record yet. That's the reason we're here, right?"

"Don't worry," she said. "I won't do anything like that. The thought just crosses my mind from time to time."