Hiromi Kawakami - The Briefcase

WHEN I THOUGHT about it, Sensei was the only person I spent any time with.

For a while now, there hadn’t been anyone besides Sensei with whom I had sat and had a drink, or gone for a walk, or seen anything interesting.

When I tried to think whom I spent time with before I became friendly with Sensei, no one came to mind.

I had been alone. I rode the bus alone, I walked around the city alone, I did my shopping alone, and I drank alone. And even when I was with Sensei now, I didn’t feel any different than when I did these things on my own. It seemed, then, that it didn’t really matter whether or not I was with Sensei, but the truth was, doing these things with him made me feel proper. “Proper” is perhaps a strange way to put it. It was more like the way I felt about leaving the extra band, the obi, that sometimes came on a book jacket intact after I bought it, rather than throwing it away. Sensei would probably be angry if he knew I was comparing him to the band on a dust jacket.

When I saw Sensei at the bar and we pretended not to know each other, it felt as distressing as if the ripped-off band and book were lying strewn about on the ground. But it would have been too wearisome to attempt to restore the level of comfort we had. No doubt Sensei felt the same way. And so we just went on ignoring each other.

I HAD TO go to Kappabashi for work. There was a strong wind that day. I was wearing a light jacket but I was still cold. It wasn’t a plaintive autumn wind, but rather a rough wind, calling winter to mind. Kappabashi is filled with wholesale dealers of household goods and tableware. There are pots and kettles, plates and bowls, and all sorts of small kitchenware. After I finished my work errands, I walked around, window-shopping. One store had copper pots that were nested inside each other, smaller and smaller versions of the same pot piled up one on top of the next. The front of another store was decorated with huge earthenware pots. Yet another had spatulas and ladles, arranged by size. There was a cutlery store. Kitchen knives, vegetable knives, sashimi knives—all of them were displayed, without their handles, inside the glass door. There were nail clippers too, and floral shears.

Attracted by the gleaming blades, I went into the store. In one corner was an assortment of graters. There were dozens of graters of different sizes, grouped together by the handles, with a little piece of cardboard that said GRATERS ON SALE attached to each bunch with a rubber band.

“How much is this?” I held up a small grater and asked the sales clerk.

“One thousand yen,” she answered. The sales clerk was wearing an apron. “Sales tax included, it’s exactly ¥1,000.” When she said, “sales tax,” it sounded like “tales sax.” I paid with a thousand-yen note and she wrapped it up for me.

I already had a grater. Kappabashi was the kind of place where I couldn’t resist buying something every time I came. On one trip, I bought a huge iron pot. I had thought it would be useful to have when I cooked for a lot of people, but when did I ever have that many people at my apartment? And even if I did, I hadn’t considered that I wouldn’t know what to make in a big pot that I wasn’t accustomed to cooking with. And so it sat, unused, in the back of the kitchen cupboard.

I had bought the new grater because I wanted to give it to Sensei.

I had started to miss Sensei while looking at the brilliant knives. As I gazed at the blades, so sharp that touching them would draw blood instantly, the desire to see Sensei grew. I had no idea why the gleam of the knives elicited such a feeling, but I missed him intensely. I was seized by the thought of buying a kitchen knife and bringing it to Sensei at home, but a big knife seemed ill-matched for that house. Somehow it didn’t suit the dimness and dampness of the atmosphere there. But the fine-toothed grater was just right. And at exactly ¥1,000, it was perfect. If I were to spend ten times that, and Sensei still ignored me, I would be angry. I didn’t think he would be so fickle, but then again, he was a Giants fan. There was no way that I could genuinely trust what he might do.

NOT LONG AFTER that, I ran into Sensei at the bar.

As before, Sensei pretended that he didn’t know me. And I too couldn’t help but respond in turn.

We were at the counter, two seats away from each other. In between us, a man drank alone while he read the newspaper. On the other side of the newspaper, Sensei ordered yudofu. I ordered yudofu as well.

“It’s cold outside, isn’t it?” the bartender said, and Sensei nodded. He may have replied softly, “Yes, it is,” but I couldn’t hear over the rustling of the newspaper.

“It got chilly all of a sudden,” I said over the man with the newspaper, and Sensei cast a glance in my direction. Well, well…, his expression seemed to say. It would have been the perfect opportunity to nod or smile at him, but I could not bring myself to do so. I quickly looked away. On the other side of the man with the newspaper, I could feel Sensei slowly shifting, his back now to me.

The tofu arrived, and I ate at the same pace as Sensei. I drank at the same pace as him, and I got drunk at the same pace. Since both of us were feeling tense, it took longer than usual for the alcohol to take effect. The man with the newspaper made no move to leave. And Sensei and I, we sat drinking on either side of him, each looking the other way and feigning composure.

“The Japan Series is over, huh,” the man said to the bartender.

“Soon it’ll be winter.”

“I don’t like the cold, you know.”

“But it’s a good time for stew.”

The man and the bartender chatted agreeably. Sensei turned his head, as if to look at me. I could feel his gaze becoming more and more insistent. Cautiously, I turned to face him.

“Would you like to come sit over here?” Sensei said in a low voice.

“Yes,” I replied, my voice also low.

The seat on the other side of the man with the newspaper, next to Sensei, was empty. I told the bartender that I was moving. I picked up my saké bottle and cup and changed seats.

“Thanks,” I said, and Sensei murmured something almost inaudibly in response.

And then, both of us still facing forward, we each resumed drinking our own saké, together.

AFTER WE PAID our separate checks, we parted the shop curtain and stepped outside. It wasn’t as cold as I expected, and stars were twinkling in the sky. We had finished drinking later than usual.

“Sensei, here,” I said, holding out the package, which was now wrinkled from being carried around for a while.

“What is it?” Sensei took the bundle, placing his briefcase on the ground and carefully unwrapping it. The small grater emerged. It glimmered in the pale light that shone through the shop curtain. It gleamed even more brightly than it had in the shop in Kappabashi.

“It’s a grater, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Is it for me?”

“Of course.”

It was a brusque exchange. Which was just like our usual conversation. I looked up at the sky and scratched the top of my head. Sensei carefully rewrapped the grater and put it in his briefcase, then straightened and started walking.

I counted stars as I walked. I counted them, looking up at the sky and trailing behind Sensei. When I reached eight, Sensei said suddenly, “Plum blossoms, fresh shoots, prepared at Mariko’s inn, with grated yam soup.”

“What is that?” I asked.

Sensei shook his head and lamented, “You don’t know your Basho either?”

“That was Basho?” I asked again.

“Yes, it’s Basho. I taught you his poetry, a long time ago,” he said. I had no recollection of learning that haiku. Sensei started walking faster.

“Sensei, you’re walking too fast,” I said to his back, but he didn’t respond. I deliberately repeated the strange words with a hint of irritation: “Grated yam soup prepared at Mariko’s inn.”

Sensei kept walking for a moment. Then he stopped, and without turning around, he said, “We should make grated yam soup together sometime. Basho’s poem is a spring haiku, but the yams are delicious right now. I can use the grater and, Tsukiko, you can grind them with a mortar and pestle, if you don’t mind.” His voice was the same as always, though he still stood in front of me, without turning to face me.

I continued to count stars, following along behind Sensei. I was up to about fifteen when we got to the place where we went our separate ways.

“Goodbye,” I waved.

Sensei waved back and said, “Goodbye.”

I watched his back as he left, and then I headed to my own place. By the time I got home, I had counted twenty-two stars, including even the tiny little ones.

WHAT ON EARTH was I doing, wandering around a place like this?

It was Sensei’s fault—after all, he was the one who first starting talking about mushrooms.

We had been sitting at the counter in the bar, the air that evening filled with autumn briskness, when Sensei, his posture perfect as always, said cheerfully, “I love mushrooms.”

“Matsutake mushrooms?” I asked, but he shook his head.

“Matsutake are fine, of course, but… ”

“Yes?”

“Assuming that ‘mushrooms’ refers to matsutake is as simplistic as deciding that ‘baseball’ means the Giants.”

“But don’t you love the Giants, Sensei?”

“I do, but I’m perfectly aware that, objectively, baseball is not only about the Giants.”

The quarrel that Sensei and I had over the Giants was still quite recent, and both of us were now extremely cautious when it came to baseball.