‘I suppose it is, isn’t it? I don’t go to sushi restaurants very often – they’re so expensive – and I could probably count the number of times I’ve sat at the counter, but I know what you mean. There’s something about that atmosphere.’
‘At its worst, it’s almost an atmosphere of collusion.’
‘Collusion?’
‘Everyone at the counter becomes a member of the group. In some sushi bars,
all
the customers are regulars and they all know each other. As an outsider, you need courage to walk into a place like that and take a seat. It’s a tight-knit little community, and harmony is of the utmost importance. Nobody’s confronting anyone else individually. The conversation all proceeds through the chef, who’s like a moderator or a master of ceremonies. You couldn’t spend some quiet time with a lover, for example, in a place like that, because you’d be isolating yourselves from the others and spoiling the atmosphere for everyone.’
‘I guess that’s true.’
‘And I’ll tell you something else: sushi and
kaiseki
are two foods I never crave when I’m really run-down or stressed.’
‘No?’
‘When you’re overseas, for example, and you’re physically tired and your nerves are frazzled, the last thing you want are cold slices of sushi, or all the subtle little tastes of
kaiseki
. At least that’s my experience, but I think it’s a fairly common one. Different people crave different things, of course, but when I’m feeling exhausted I prefer spicy food like Korean or Sichuan Chinese. Spices stimulate the appetite.’
‘I love spicy food. Indian food, for example.’
‘Indian food’s great, isn’t it? Most spicy cuisines originated in hot climates – Cambodia, Thailand, Vietnam, they’re all tropical places – but in Korea the climate is relatively cold. I’ve wondered about that before, why it is that so much Korean food is spicy. Korea has an incredibly rich culture, but history has been cruel to the people. The Koreans have suffered enormously, in very basic and concrete ways – being invaded and occupied by foreigners, having relatives murdered before their eyes, that sort of thing. It’s hard for most of us even to imagine what they’ve been through. But no matter how bad your situation is, you need to eat. And spicy food is a powerful ally when your reserves of courage and energy are low, because it stimulates your appetite. Sushi and
kaiseki
don’t have that sort of power. The portions are cold and fresh and bite-size and soft and go down easily, but they aren’t foods that lend you strength when you don’t have the strength to take sustenance. My theory is that sushi and
kaiseki
are dishes that evolved in peaceful, prosperous times, when eating well was the normal state of affairs. In this country we have the illusion that there’s always this warm, loving community we belong to, but the other side of that is a sort of exclusiveness and xenophobia, and our food reflects this. Japanese cuisine isn’t inclusive at all – in fact it’s extremely inhospitable to outsiders, to people who don’t fit into the community.’
As he talked, Aoyama emptied five of the little Mikawachi-yaki cups of warmed
ginjoshu
. Talking too much, he thought, and reminded himself that he’d better ease up – he would be ill-advised to discuss his personal life while drunk. Yamasaki Asami laid down her chopsticks and peered at him. What a beautiful face, he thought, and what a mysterious face. It seemed different from every angle.
‘Do you always think about things like this?’ she said.
‘Like what?’
‘The things you were just talking about.’
‘Not always, no. I guess it’s just a matter of living a long time – the thoughts accumulate, especially the useless ones.’
She helped herself to the last piece of yellowtail sashimi.
‘I think you have the most original ideas,’ she said. ‘I could listen to you for hours.’
Aoyama hoped he wasn’t blushing. The barefooted assistant brought another small bottle of warmed saké, along with more starters – grilled eel, steamed
kyoimo
taros, and
shimeji
mushrooms in a black-pepper sauce.
‘You may be the first man I’ve ever gone out with,’ Yamasaki Asami said, ‘who spoke to me as if I had a brain.’
The three old gentlemen had finished their dessert of dried persimmons, and now Kai was helping them on with their coats. Their amiable conversation continued as they prepared to leave: ‘Shall we stop by Ginza?’ ‘I can’t, I’m off for Seattle early tomorrow morning.’ ‘Those long flights are hard on the immune system, they say, not to mention the lower back.’ Passing behind them on the way out, the gentlemen murmured ‘Excuse us’ and ‘Good night’, confirming what Aoyama already knew – that those with real power are unfailingly courteous.
‘Most men,’ Yamasaki Asami continued, ‘don’t seem to take young women like me seriously.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I’ve been babbling a bit.’
‘I think what you were saying was very perceptive. And interesting.’
He took another sip of saké and smiled sheepishly.
‘Just talking off the top of my head, really,’ he said. ‘The truth is, I
love
sushi.’
Yamasaki Asami laughed. Kai was seeing the old gentlemen off, and the assistant was in the back somewhere, so the two of them were alone for a moment. Aoyama laughed too, not because what he’d said was very funny, but because some of the tension had finally evaporated. It was time to broach the subject foremost in his mind. Kai came back in but sat in the far corner of the room and lit a cigarette. She smoked non-filtered Peace.
‘I wanted to discuss something else fairly serious tonight,’ Aoyama began.
Yamasaki Asami glanced up at him, sensing his nervousness, and immediately set down her chopsticks. Her cheeks were faintly flushed. She folded her hands in her lap and lowered her gaze, listening.
‘I haven’t told you anything about my private life,’ he went on. ‘My wife . . . Seven years ago she died of cancer.’
At the word ‘wife’, Yamasaki Asami tensed up visibly. At the word ‘died’, she turned to face him.
‘I haven’t had a real relationship with anyone since her death. Which is not to say I’m some sort of paragon of morality, mind you. But after she died, I just buried myself in my work. I told you about the German pipe organist. Well, it was right after my wife died that I got involved in that project. I used to come to this restaurant with her a lot – but please don’t take that the wrong way. It’s not that I’m looking for a replacement for my wife, or that you remind me of her, or anything like that. You’re a different person, of course, completely different – in fact, I think you’re utterly unique. Which is why, as I’ve come to know you over the past couple of months, I’ve . . . Well, I’ve started to think about getting married again.’
He couldn’t help noticing that Yamasaki Asami was not taking this well. The rosy flush had drained from her cheeks, and now the shoulders of her glossy black dress were trembling.
‘Forgive me if I’m putting you on the spot,’ he said. ‘I know what a farce this is if you don’t feel the same way, but I decided I had to ask anyway. I’m a widower, and I’m tired of being alone. I’d like to continue seeing you, with an eye to getting married eventually.’
She looked up at him, then immediately dropped her gaze. She tried awkwardly to twist her lips into a smile but soon abandoned the effort and shook her head.
‘I’m not that sort of person.’
There was something unsettling about her voice as she said this. Aoyama felt as if a cold wind had swept over him.
Not that sort of person
. What did it mean? That she had no intention of being tied down? Or simply that she wasn’t taking their relationship as seriously as he was?
‘I’m sorry,’ she said and stood up. Kai glanced over at them.
Aoyama felt as if his biggest fear had been realised. He knew he had to act but couldn’t think of anything to do or say. He sat there paralysed as Yamasaki Asami took her leather coat from the hook on the wall.
‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I want to go home now.’
The expression on her face was strangely vacant and frigid, and Aoyama didn’t know how to react. All he could do was watch in a kind of daze as she walked out and quietly closed the door behind her. Kai stubbed out her cigarette and said, ‘What are you waiting for? Go after her.’
Leather coat in hand, Yamasaki Asami was all but running as she threaded her way through the streetwalkers. Aoyama had to sprint if he wanted to catch her before she reached the main street.
‘Asami-san!’
He called her name, but his throat was so tight and dry that his shout came out more like a whimper. The streetwalkers’ alley seemed surreal to him now. The faces of the ladies in their gaudy clothing and the boys with their thick make-up and bizarre wigs seemed to leap at him in a series of close-ups. He felt as if he’d been thrust into a Fellini film, or a nightmare. A chaos of colours flashed before his eyes – a green bouffant hairdo, metallic silver toenails in purple high heels, the scarlet lipstick of a male hooker, the vivid pink of a pair of lamé stockings. He felt disorientated and had no idea what he was doing, or what he was going to say to her. The cold night air on his face was all that seemed to connect him to reality.
‘Asami-san!’
When he yelped her name for the third time, she turned and stopped to wait for him. He got close enough in the dim light to see that her brows were knitted with what looked like annoyance.
‘I’m sorry for suddenly blurting out such a thing. It was stupid of me. At least let me help you find a taxi. You can respond to what I said next time, or on the phone if you prefer. Or maybe it’s not even something you have to think about, but that’s all right too. I just felt I needed to say what I said.’
She shook her head with the same irritated expression and muttered something. He could see her breath in the night air but couldn’t hear what she said. The odd sense of being in a movie still hadn’t left him. Only the white vapour of his own breath seemed unambiguously real.
She peered up at him as if she were about to speak but then turned, letting her head droop, and slowly continued towards the street. So slowly that it was difficult to keep from outpacing her. Aoyama paused every few steps and gazed blankly at the distant cluster of skyscrapers that loomed over the buildings ahead. Red lights flashed atop them, each blinking at its own regular pace, as if registering a different heartbeat. When they reached the street they stopped and turned to face each other. Neither made any attempt to hail a taxi. She was still carrying her coat. He gently lifted it from her arm and draped it over her shoulders, and as he did so, she teetered forwards and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. Her shoulders were trembling violently, and the embrace was an extremely awkward one. Aoyama was too stunned to know what to do. He held her as if to keep her from falling, the cold leather of her coat slipping under his fingers. Then she let go of him and took a step back.
‘You’re not just toying with me, are you?’ Her voice was an unfamiliar, icy whisper, and her face underwent a sudden and startling transformation as she spoke. It was as if she were shedding some sort of membrane. A wave of goose-pimples rippled over Aoyama’s flesh.
‘Of course not,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’ve never been more serious.’
He watched her face return to normal. As if that transparent membrane were slowly re-adhering to her skin. It didn’t seem like something she was doing consciously – putting on a mask to hide her true self, for example, or to protect herself from the eyes of others – but rather a natural process, a physical response. As natural as laughing when something was funny, or seething over an insult.
‘Thank you,’ she said, reverting to the voice he knew so well. A taxi pulled up beside them at the kerb, and she climbed inside. ‘And thank you for tonight.’ Aoyama bent down and kissed her on the cheek, and she turned to look into his eyes. ‘I love you,’ she whispered, and pressed her mouth against his.
‘Same here,’ Aoyama said some moments later.
She waved to him from the back seat of the taxi until it melted into the traffic and was gone.
‘Where did you meet her?’
When Aoyama got back to the restaurant, Kai was waiting with another bottle of warmed saké and got out her own Arita-yaki cup to help him drink it. He told her about the audition and about Yamasaki Asami’s background and responded frankly, if somewhat mechanically, to her questions. To his own ears his voice sounded like that of a child in a state of shock. He still hadn’t recovered from that kiss. Yamasaki Asami’s lips were cold and soft and sweet, and the moment the kiss was over he’d experienced, along with exhilaration, a bizarre sense of guilt, or shame. It wasn’t quite like anything he’d ever known before – a sense of having done something that can never be retracted, or forgiven. It was a bitter, almost painful, sort of feeling, but it was also intoxicating. Just to taste those lips again, Aoyama thought . . .
I’d probably give up everything I own.
Kai sat facing him across the counter, smoking another Peace, and poured them both some saké. Kai was a classic beauty, but right now all Aoyama could see were the lines of age on her face.