South Of The Border, West Of The Sun Part 9

"I wonder."

"Now you're able to think of a few things other than what's under a girl's skirt, right?"

"A few," I said. "But if that's got you worried, maybe next time you'd better wear pants!"

Shimamoto gazed at her hands, resting on the table-top, and laughed. She didn't wear a ring. A bracelet, and a new watch every time we met. And earrings. But never a ring.

"I didn't want to be a burden to any boy," she continued. "You know what I mean. There were so many things I couldn't do. Going on picnics, swimming, skiing, skating, dancing at a disco. It was hard enough just to walk. All I could do was sit with someone, talk, and listen to music, which boys that age couldn't stand for very long. And I hated that."

She drank Perrier with a twist of lemon. It was a warm afternoon in the middle of March. Some of the young people pa.s.sing by on the street outside were decked out in short-sleeved shirts.

"If I had gone out with you then, I know I would have ended up being a burden to you. You would soon have been fed up with me. You would have wanted to be more active, to take a running leap into the wide world outside. And I wouldn't have been able to endure it."

"Shimamoto-san," I said, "that's impossible. I never would have been impatient with you. We had something very special. I can't explain it in words, but it's true. A special, precious something."

She looked at me closely, her expression unchanged.

"I'm not some great person," I continued. "I'm not much to brag about. I used to be pretty crude, insensitive, and arrogant. So maybe I wouldn't have been the right person for you. But there is one thing I am certain about: I never, ever ever would have been fed up with you. That, at least, makes me different from other people you knew. In that sense I am indeed a special person for you." would have been fed up with you. That, at least, makes me different from other people you knew. In that sense I am indeed a special person for you."

Shimamoto's gaze again shifted to her hands on the table. She lightly spread her fingers, as if checking all ten of them.

"Hajime," she began, "the sad truth is that certain types of things can't go backward. Once they start going forward, no matter what you do, they can't go back the way they were. If even one little thing goes awry, then that's how it will stay forever."

Once, she called to invite me to a concert of Liszt piano concertos. The soloist was a famous South American pianist. I cleared my schedule and went with her to the conceit hall at Ueno Park. The performance was brilliant The soloist's technique was outstanding, the music both delicate and deep, and the pianist's heated emotions were there for all to feel. Still, even with my eyes closed, the music didn't sweep me away. A thin curtain stood between myself and the pianist and no matter how much I might try, I couldn't get to the other side. When I told Shimamoto this after the concert, she agreed.

"But what was wrong with the performance?" she asked. "I thought it was wonderful."

"Don't you remember?" I said. "The record we used to listen to, at the end of the second movement there was this tiny scratch you could hear. Putchi! Putchi! Putchi! Putchi! Somehow, without that scratch, I can't get into the music!" Somehow, without that scratch, I can't get into the music!"

Shimamoto laughed. "I wouldn't exactly call that art appreciation."

"This has nothing to do with art. Let a bald vulture eat that up, for all I care. I don't care what anybody says; I like that scratch!"

"Maybe you're right," she admitted. "But what's this about a bald vulture? Regular vultures I know about-they eat corpses. But bald vultures?"

In the train on the way home, I explained the difference in great detail. The difference in where they are born, their call, their mating periods. "The bald vulture lives by devouring art. The regular vulture lives by devouring the corpses of unknown people. They're completely different"

"You're a strange one!" She laughed. And there in the train seat ever so slightly, she moved her shoulder to touch mine. The one and only time in the past two months our bodies touched.

March pa.s.sed, and so did April. My younger daughter started going to nursery school. With the kids away from home, Yukiko began doing volunteer work in the community, helping out at a home for handicapped children. Most of the time it was my job to take the kids to school and pick them up again. Whenever I was busy, my wife took over. Watching the children grow, day by day, I could feel myself aging. All by themselves, regardless of any plans I might have for them, my children were getting bigger. I loved my daughters, of course. Watching them grow up made me happier than anything. Sometimes, though, seeing them grow bigger by the month made me feel oppressed. It was as if a tree were growing inside my body, laying down roots, spreading its branches, pushing down on my organs, my muscles, bones, and skin, forcing its way outward. It was so stifling at times that I couldn't sleep.

Once a week I met Shimamoto. And daily I shuttled my daughters back and forth to school. And a couple of times a week I made love to my wife. Since starting to see Shimamoto again, I made love to Yukiko more often. Not out of guilt, though. Loving her, and being loved, was the only way I could hold myself together.

"You've changed. What's going on?" Yukiko asked me one afternoon after s.e.x. "n.o.body told me that when men reach thirty-seven their s.e.x drive goes into high gear."

"Nothing's going on. Same old same old," I replied.

She looked at me for a while. And shook her head slightly. "My oh my, I wonder what's going on inside that head of yours," she said.

In my free time I listened to cla.s.sical music and gazed out at Aoyama Cemetery. I didn't read as much as I used to. My concentration was shot to h.e.l.l.

Several times I saw the young woman in the Mercedes 260E. Waiting for our daughters to come out the school gate, we stood there, making small talk, the kind of gossip only someone living in Aoyama would comprehend. Advice about which supermarket lot you could find parking s.p.a.ce in, and when; the latest on a certain Italian restaurant, which had changed chefs and now couldn't serve decent food; news that the Meiji-ya import store was having a sale on imported wine next month, etc. d.a.m.n, I thought I've become a regular gossipy hausfrau! But these things were all we had in common.

In the middle of April, Shimamoto disappeared again. The last time I saw her, we were sitting in the Robin's Nest. Just before ten, a phone call came from my other bar, something I had to take care of right away. "I'll be back in thirty minutes or so," I told her.

"All right," she said, smiling. "I'll read a book while you're gone."

I rushed to take care of the ch.o.r.e, then hurried back to the bar, but she was no longer there. It was a little past eleven. On the counter, on the back of a match book, she'd left a message: "Probably I won't be able to come here for a while," the note said. "I have to go home now. Goodbye. Take care."

I was at loose ends for days. I paced around my house, wandered the streets aimlessly, and went to pick up my daughters early. And I talked with the Mercedes 260E lady. We went to a nearby coffee shop to have a cup of coffee, gossiping as usual about the state of the vegetables at the Kinokuniya Market, the fertilized eggs at the Natural House food store, the bargain sales at Miki House. The woman was a fan of Inaba Yoshie's designer wear, and before the season arrived she ordered all the clothes she wanted from the catalog. We talked, too, about the wonderful eel restaurant near the police box on Omote Sando, which was no longer in business. We enjoyed talking. The woman was more friendly and open than she had first appeared to be. Not that I was s.e.xually attracted to her. I just needed someone-anyone-to talk to. What I wanted was harmless, meaningless talk, talk that would lead anywhere but back to Shimamoto.

When I ran out of things to do, I'd go shopping. Once, on a whim, I bought six shirts. I bought toys and dolls for my daughters, accessories for Yukiko. I stopped by the BMW showroom a couple of times to check out the M5; I didn't really plan to buy one but let the salesman give me his pitch.

A few unsettled weeks like this, and I found myself again able to concentrate. I'm going nowhere fast here, I decided. So I called a designer and an interior decorator to discuss remodeling the bars. They were overdue for a little remodeling anyway, and it was high time I did some serious thinking about how I ran my business. Just like with people, with bars there's a time to leave them alone and a time for change. Being stuck in the same environment, you grow dull and lethargic. Your energy level takes a nosedive. Even castles in the air can do with a fresh coat of paint. I started with the other bar, saving the Robin's Nest for later. I began by removing all the hyper-chic aspects of the bar, which, when you came right down to it, were a pain in the b.u.t.t, the whole point being to come up with an efficient functional workplace. The audio system and air conditioning were about due for an overhaul too, as was the menu, which I drastically revamped. I interviewed my employees and came up with a hefty list of suggested improvements. In great detail I laid out to the designer my vision of what the bar should be, had him draw up a plan, then sent him back to the drawing board to incorporate features that had popped into my head in the meantime. We repeated this process a number of times. I selected all the materials, had the contractors draw up estimates, readjusted my budget. I spent three weeks scouring shops throughout Tokyo in search of the world's greatest soap dispenser. All of this kept me extremely busy. But that, after all, was precisely what I was after.

May came and went, then it was June. Still no Shimamoto. I was sure she was gone forever. Probably I won't be able to come here for a while Probably I won't be able to come here for a while, she'd written. It was this probably probably and and for a while for a while and the ambiguity inherent in them that made me suffer. Someday she might show up again. But I couldn't just sit around, resting my hopes and dreams on vague promises. Keep on like this, I thought, and I'll end up a blithering idiot so I concentrated on keeping myself busy. I started going to the pool every morning, and I'd swim two thousand meters without stopping, then go upstairs to the gym for weight lifting. A week of that, and my muscles started to rebel. Waiting at a stoplight one day, I felt my left foot go numb, and I couldn't step on the clutch. Finally, though, my muscles got used to the workout. Hard physical effort left no room to think, and keeping my body always in motion helped me concentrate on the trivia of daily life. Daydreaming was forbidden. I tried my best to concentrate on whatever I was doing. Washing my face, I focused on that; listening to music, I was all music. It was the only way I could survive. and the ambiguity inherent in them that made me suffer. Someday she might show up again. But I couldn't just sit around, resting my hopes and dreams on vague promises. Keep on like this, I thought, and I'll end up a blithering idiot so I concentrated on keeping myself busy. I started going to the pool every morning, and I'd swim two thousand meters without stopping, then go upstairs to the gym for weight lifting. A week of that, and my muscles started to rebel. Waiting at a stoplight one day, I felt my left foot go numb, and I couldn't step on the clutch. Finally, though, my muscles got used to the workout. Hard physical effort left no room to think, and keeping my body always in motion helped me concentrate on the trivia of daily life. Daydreaming was forbidden. I tried my best to concentrate on whatever I was doing. Washing my face, I focused on that; listening to music, I was all music. It was the only way I could survive.

In the summer, Yukiko and I often took the kids to our cottage in Hakone. Away from Tokyo, in the great outdoors, Yukiko and the children were relaxed and happy. They picked flowers, watched birds with binoculars, played tag, splashed about in the river. Or else they just lay around in the yard. But they didn't know the truth. That on a certain snowy winter day, if my plane had been grounded, I would have thrown them all away to be with Shimamoto. My job, my family, my money-everything, without flinching. And here I was, my head still full of Shimamoto. The sensation of holding her, of kissing her cheek, wouldn't leave me. I couldn't drive the image of Shimamoto from my mind and replace it with my wife. Just as I could never tell what Shimamoto was thinking, no one had a clue to what was in my mind.

I decided to spend the rest of our summer vacation finishing up the remodeling. While Yukiko and the children were in Hakone, I stayed in Tokyo alone to supervise the work and give last-minute instructions. I'd swim in the pool, work out at the gym. On weekends I'd go to Hakone, swim in the Fujiya Hotel pool with my kids, and we'd all have dinner together. And at night I'd make love to my wife.

I was fast approaching middle age, yet had no extra fat to speak of, no thinning hair. Not a single white hair, either. Exercise helped keep the inevitable physical decline at bay. Lead a well-regulated life, never overdo anything, and watch your diet: that was my motto. I never got sick, and most people would have guessed I was barely thirty.

My wife loved to touch my body. She'd touch the muscles on my chest and stomach, and fondle my p.e.n.i.s and b.a.l.l.s. Yukiko, too, was going to the gym to work out regularly. But it didn't seem to slim her down.

"Must be getting old," she sighed. "My weight goes down, but this roll of pudge is still here."

"I like your body just the way it is," I told her. "You're fine the way you are-no need to work out or go on diets. It's not like you're fat or anything." Which wasn't a lie. I really did like the softness of her body with its bit of extra flesh. I loved to rub her naked back.

"You just don't get it," she said, shaking her head. "You say it's okay for me to look the way I am now, but it takes every ounce of energy I have just to stay in the same place."

An outsider would probably have said we had an ideal life. Certainly I was convinced of it at times. I was fired up about my work and was taking in a good deal of money. I owned a four-bedroom condo in Aoyama, a small cottage in the mountains of Hakone, a BMW, a Jeep Cherokee. And I had a happy family. I loved my wife and my two daughters. What more could anyone ask for? If, say, Yukiko and the kids had begged me to tell them what they should do to be even better to me, to be loved even more, there was nothing I could have said. I could not imagine a happier life.

But since Shimamoto had stopped coming to see me, I was stuck on the airless surface of the moon. If she was gone forever, no one remained to whom I could reveal my true feelings. On sleepless nights I'd lie in bed and replay over and over in my mind that scene at the snowy Komatsu Airport. Recall it enough times, and the memories would start to fade. Or so I thought. The more I remembered, the stronger the memories became. The word "Delayed" flashing on the flight information board; outside the window, the snow coming down hard. You couldn't see more than fifty yards. On the bench, Shimamoto sat still, hugging herself tight. Her navy pea coat and m.u.f.fler. Her body with its mixed scent of tears and sadness. I could smell that scent. Beside me, in bed, my wife breathed quietly, asleep. She knows nothing. I closed my eyes and shook my head. She knows nothing She knows nothing.

The abandoned bowling alley parking lot, my melting snow in my mouth and feeding it to her. Shimamoto in the airplane, in my arms. Her closed eyes, the sigh from her slightly parted lips. Her body, soft and limp. She wanted me then. Her heart was open to me. Yet I held myself back, back on the surface of the moon, stuck in this lifeless world. And in the end she left me, and my life was lost all over again.

Sometimes I'd wake up at two or three in the morning and not be able to fall asleep again. I'd get out of bed, go to the kitchen, and pour myself a whiskey. Gla.s.s in hand, I'd look down at the darkened cemetery across the way and the headlights of the cars on the road. The moments of time linking night and dawn were long and dark. If I could cry, it might make things easier. But what would I cry over? Who would I cry for? I was too self-centered to cry for other people, too old to cry for myself.

Autumn finally arrived. And when it did, I came to a decision. Something had to give: I couldn't keep on living like this.

13.

In the morning after dropping off my daughters at nursery school, I went to the pool and swam my usual two thousand meters. I imagined I was a fish. Just a fish, with no need to think, not even about swimming. Next I showered, changed into a T-shirt and shorts, and started pumping iron.

Then I headed to the one-room flat I used as an office and set to checking the account books, figuring my employees' pay, working on the plan for remodeling the Robin's Nest the following February. At one, as usual, I went home and had lunch with my wife.

"Honey, I had a call from my father this morning," Yukiko said. "Busy as always. He said there's this stock that'll go through the roof, and we should buy as much as we could manage. Not your run-of-the-mill stock tip, he said, but something extra special."

"If it's going to earn that much, he shouldn't tell us about it but should keep it to himself. Wonder why he didn't."

"He said this was his personal way of saying thanks to you. He said you'd understand what he meant. Do you? He's letting us have his share, you see. He said to invest all the money we have and not to worry, because this stock was hot. If somehow it didn't turn a profit, he'd make sure we didn't lose a penny."

I rested my fork on my plate of pasta. "Anything else?"

"Well, he said we had to move quickly, so I called the bank and had them close out our savings accounts and send the money to Mr. Nakayama at the investment firm. So he could buy the stock. I was only able to sc.r.a.pe together about eight million yen. Maybe I should have bought even more?"

I drank some water. And tried to find the right words. "Before you did all that, why didn't you ask me?"

"Ask you?" she said, surprised. "But you always buy the stocks my father tells you to. You've had me do it any number of times, haven't you? You always tell me to just go ahead and do what I think is right. So that's what I did. My father said there wasn't a minute to lose. You were at the pool and I couldn't get in touch with you. So what's the problem?"

"It's all right," I said. "But I want you to sell all the stock."

"Sell it?" She screwed up her eyes as if blinded by a glaring light.

"Sell all the stock you bought and put the money back in our savings accounts."

"But if I do that we'll have to pay a lot in transaction fees."

"I don't care," I said. "Just pay it. I don't care if we end up losing. Just sell everything you bought today."

Yukiko sighed. "What happened between you and Father? What's going on?"

I didn't answer.

"What happened?"

"Listen, Yukiko," I began, "I'm getting sick of all this. I don't want to earn money in the stock market. I want to earn money by working with my own hands. I've done a good job up till now. You haven't wanted for money, have you?"

"I know you've done a good job, and I haven't complained once. I'm grateful to you, and you know I respect you. But still, my father's doing this to help us out. Don't you understand that?"

"I understand. Yukiko, do you know what insider trading is? Do you know what it means when somebody tells you there's a one hundred percent chance you'll turn a profit?"

"No."

"It's called stock manipulation," I said. "Somebody inside a company manipulates the stock to rack up an artificial profit, then he and his pals split up the proceeds. And that money makes its way into politicians' pockets or ends up as corporate bribes. This isn't like the kind of stock your father urged me to buy before. That kind of stock probably probably was going to make a profit. That was just welcome information, nothing more. And most of the time the stock did go up, but not every time. This time is different. This stinks. And I don't want to have anything to do with it." was going to make a profit. That was just welcome information, nothing more. And most of the time the stock did go up, but not every time. This time is different. This stinks. And I don't want to have anything to do with it."

Fork in hand, Yukiko was lost in thought.

"How can you be sure this is a case of stock manipulation?"

"If you really want to know that, ask your father," I said. "But I can tell you this: stock that's guaranteed not to go down can only result from illegal deals. My father worked in an investment firm for forty years. Worked hard from morning to night. But all he left behind was a crummy little house. Maybe he just wasn't good at it. Every night, my mother was hunched over the household account books, worried over a hundred or two hundred yen that didn't balance. That's the kind of family I was raised in. You said you can only come up with eight million yen. Yukiko, we're talking about real money here, not Monopoly money. Most people ride to work every day, smashed together in packed trains, put in overtime, knock themselves out, and still couldn't come near making that much in a year. I lived that kind of life for eight years, so I know. And there was no way I could make eight million yen. But you probably can't picture that kind of life."

Yukiko was silent. She bit her lip and stared hard at her plate. Realizing that I'd begun to raise my voice, I lowered it.

"You can blithely say that in half a month the money we invest will double. Eight million yen will turn into sixteen million. But something's very wrong with that kind of thinking. I've found myself sucked into that mind-set and it makes me feel empty."

Yukiko looked at me from across the table. As I resumed eating, I could feel something inside me shaking. Was it irritation or anger? I couldn't tell. Whatever it was, I was helpless before it.

"I'm sorry. I should have minded my own business," Yukiko said quietly, after a long silence.

"It's okay. I'm not blaming you. I'm not blaming anybody."

"I'll call right now and have them sell every single share. Just stop being angry with me."

"I'm not angry."

Silent, I continued to eat.

"Isn't there something you want to tell me?" Yukiko asked, looking straight at me. "If something is bothering you, tell me. Even if it's something that's hard to talk about. If there's anything I can do, just name it. I'm only an ordinary person, and I know I'm completely naive about everything-including running a business. But I can't stand to see you unhappy. I don't want to see that pained look on your face. What is it you hate about our life? Tell me."

I shook my head. "I have no complaints. I like my job, and I love you. All I'm saying is that sometimes I can't keep up with your father's way of doing things. Don't get me wrong, I like him. I know he's trying to help us out and I appreciate it. So I'm not angry. I just can't understand who I am anymore. I can't tell right from wrong. So I'm confused. But not angry."

"You certainly look angry."

I sighed.

"And you sigh all the time," she said. "Anyhow, something's definitely bothering you. Your mind's a million miles away."

"I don't know."

Yukiko kept her eyes on me. "There's something on your mind," she said. "But I have no idea what that is. I wish there was something I could do to help."

I was struck by a violent desire to confess everything. What a relief that would be! No more hiding, no more need to playact or to lie. Yukiko, see, there's another woman I love, someone I just can't forget. I've held back, trying to keep our world from crumbling, but I can't hold back anymore. The next time she shows up, I don't care what happens: I'm going to make love to her. I've thought of her while I've m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed. I've thought of her while I've made love to you, Yukiko Yukiko, see, there's another woman I love, someone I just can't forget. I've held back, trying to keep our world from crumbling, but I can't hold back anymore. The next time she shows up, I don't care what happens: I'm going to make love to her. I've thought of her while I've m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed. I've thought of her while I've made love to you, Yukiko... But I didn't say anything. Confession would serve no purpose. It would only make us miserable.

After lunch, I returned to my office to continue work. But my mind, indeed, was a million miles away. I felt lousy, preaching to Yukiko like that What What I said was all right. But the person who said it was all wrong. I'd lied to Yukiko, sneaking around behind her back. I was the last person who should take the moral high ground. Yukiko was trying very hard to think about me. That was quite clear, and consistent with the kind of person she was. But what about my life? Was there any consistency, any conviction to speak of? I felt deflated, utterly lacking the will to move. I said was all right. But the person who said it was all wrong. I'd lied to Yukiko, sneaking around behind her back. I was the last person who should take the moral high ground. Yukiko was trying very hard to think about me. That was quite clear, and consistent with the kind of person she was. But what about my life? Was there any consistency, any conviction to speak of? I felt deflated, utterly lacking the will to move.

I put my feet up on my desk and, pencil in hand, gazed listlessly out the window. From my office you could see a park. The weather was nice, and there were a number of parents with their children. The children played in the sandbox or slid down the slides, while their mothers kept an eye on them and chatted with other mothers. Seeing these little children at play reminded me of my own daughters. I wanted to see them, to once again walk down the street holding the two of them in my arms. I wanted to feel the warmth of their bodies. But thoughts of them led inexorably to memories of Shimamoto. Vivid memories of her slightly parted lips. Thoughts of my daughters were crowded out by the image of Shimamoto. I could think of nothing else.

I left my office and took a walk down the main street in Aoyama. I went in the coffee shop where Shimamoto and I used to rendezvous, and had some coffee. I read a book and, when I tired of reading, thought again of her. I recalled fragments of our conversations, how she'd take a Salem out of her bag and light it, how she'd casually brush back a lock of hair, how she tilted her head slightly as she smiled. Soon I grew tired of sitting there alone and set out for a walk toward Shibuya. I used to like to walk the city streets, gazing at the buildings and shops, watching all the people. I liked the feeling of moving through the city on my own two feet. Now, though, the city was depressing and empty. Buildings were falling apart, all the trees had lost their color, and every pa.s.serby was devoid of feelings, and of dreams.

Looking for an unpopular movie, I entered the theater and watched the screen intently. When the movie was over, I walked out into the evening city streets, went into a restaurant I happened to pa.s.s, and had a simple meal. Shibuya was packed with office workers on their way home. Like a speeded-up film, trains pulled into the station and swallowed up one crowd after another. It was right around here, I suddenly recalled, that I'd caught sight of Shimamoto, some ten years before, in her red overcoat and sungla.s.ses. It might have been a million years ago.

Everything came back to me. The end-of-year crowds, the way she walked, each corner we turned, the cloudy sky, the department store bag she carried, the coffee cup she didn't touch, the Christmas carols. Once again a pang of regret swept over me for not having called out to her. I had nothing to tie me down then, nothing to lose. I could have held her close, and the two of us could have walked off together. No matter what situation she was stuck in, we could have found a way out. But I'd lost that chance forever. A mysterious middle-aged guy grabbed me by the elbow, and Shimamoto slipped into a taxi and disappeared.

I took a crowded evening train back. The weather had taken a turn for the worse while I was watching the movie, and the sky was covered with heavy, wet-looking clouds. It looked like it was going to rain at any minute. I had no umbrella with me and was dressed in the yacht parka, blue jeans, and sneakers I'd set out in that morning when I went to the pool. I should have gone home to change into my usual suit But I didn't feel like it. No matter, I'd decided. I could skip the necktie for once-no harm done.

By seven it was raining. A gentle rain, the kind of autumn drizzle that looked like it would last. As I usually did, I stopped by the remodeled bar first to check out how business was. The place had ended up pretty much as I had envisioned it. The bar was a much more relaxed, efficient place to work. The lighting was more subdued, and the music enhanced this mood. I had designed a small separate kitchen, hired a professional chef, and made up a new menu of simple yet elegant dishes. The kind of dishes that had no extra ingredients or flourishes but which an amateur could never master. They were intended, after all, as snacks to accompany drinks, so they had to be easy to eat. Every month, we changed the menu completely. It had been no easy task to find the kind of chef I had in mind. I finally did locate one, though it cost me, much more than I'd bargained for. But he earned his pay, and I was satisfied. My customers seemed pleased too.

Around nine, I borrowed an umbrella from the bar and headed over to the Robin's Nest. And at nine-thirty, Shimamoto showed up. Strangely enough, she always appeared on quiet rainy evenings.