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.
Mushroom Hunting, Part 1
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.
“There are many varieties of mushrooms.”
“I see.”
“For instance, you can pick murasaki shimeji mushrooms and roast them on the spot. Drizzled with soy sauce—my goodness, so delicious!”
“Yes.”
“And iguchi mushrooms are quite savory as well.”
“I see.”
As our conversation went on, the owner of the bar had poked his head out from his side of the counter.
“You know a lot about mushrooms, sir!”
Sensei gave a slight nod. “Oh, not much at all,” he said, although his demeanor seemed to suggest that he knew quite a bit.
“I always go mushroom hunting this time of year,” the owner said, craning his neck. He gestured toward Sensei and me with his nose, like a mama bird feeding her chicks.
“I see,” Sensei replied in the same vague way that I often did.
“Well then, sir, since you like them so much, would you like to come along with me on this year’s mushroom hunt?”
Sensei and I exchanged glances. Despite the fact that we came to this bar almost every other night, the owner had never once treated us like regulars or made a point of making friendly conversation. Rather, it was the kind of place where everyone was treated like a new customer. And now, suddenly, the owner had invited us “to come along” with him.
“Where do you do this mushroom hunting?” Sensei asked.
The owner craned his neck even further. “Around Tochigi,” he answered. Sensei and I exchanged glances once again. The owner awaited our reply, his neck still outstretched. At the same moment that I wondered aloud, What do you think . . . ? Sensei responded, Let’s go. Somehow, just like that, it was decided that we would go mushroom hunting in Tochigi via the owner’s car.
I KNOW ABSOLUTELY nothing about cars. Neither does Sensei. The bar owner’s car was white and boxy, unlike the sort
