a great manager, isn’t he?” Sensei still managed to deftly pour his saké into my fleeing cup, without spilling a drop. Quite well done.
“Fortunately that’s fortunate,” I said, turning aside and putting down the cup of saké without drinking it.
“Tsukiko, that’s a strange thing to say.”
“Unfortunately that’s unfortunate.”
“The pitcher played well, too.” Sensei was laughing.
He’s laughing—what a jerk, I cursed to myself. Sensei had a huge grin on his face. And Sensei, who was always so calm and composed, was laughing heartily.
“Can we stop talking about it?” I said, staring at Sensei. But he wouldn’t stop grinning. And there was something curious playing at the corners of his mouth. It was like the glimmer of delight in the eyes of a young boy as he squashes little ants.
“No, I will not stop talking about it, most definitely not!”
What was he saying? Sensei knew that I hated the Giants, and here he was, gloating. He was most definitely gloating.
“The Giants, they’re all fuckers,” I said, spilling the entire cup of saké that Sensei had poured me onto an empty plate.
“‘Fuckers’?! Such language from a young lady!” Sensei replied, having regained his perfect composure. He stood up even straighter than usual and drained his cup.
“I am not a young lady.”
“Pardon me.”
Disquiet filled the air between Sensei and me. Sensei did have a point. After all, the Giants had won. Eventually, without saying a word, we each went back to pouring our own drinks. We didn’t order anything to eat, we simply kept on pouring. At the end of the night, we were both quite drunk. Maintaining our silence, we each paid our bill, left the bar, and went our respective ways home. And ever since then, we haven’t spoken.
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
