The Briefcase (2 page)

“A tester?” I repeated, as Sensei gently took the black box from my hand and rummaged among some things. Once he located a black and a red cord, he attached each of them to the tester. Both cords had terminals on the ends.

“Go like this,” Sensei said, putting the red cord’s terminal on one end and the black cord’s terminal on the other end of the battery that said ELECTRIC SHAVER.

“See, Tsukiko, look at that!” Since both of his hands were full, Sensei gestured with his chin at the battery tester’s calibrations. The needle was just barely vibrating. He moved the terminals away from the battery and the needle went still, and when he touched them again, it quivered.

“There’s still a charge left, isn’t there?” Sensei said softly. “It’s not enough power to run a motor, but there’s still a bit of life in it.”

Sensei measured each of the many batteries with the tester. Most of them didn’t register on the meter when he touched the terminals, but every so often the needle would move. Each time it did, he would utter a little “Oh!”

“The slightest sign of life,” I said, and Sensei gave a vague nod.

“But they will all die out eventually,” he said languidly, in a faraway voice.

“They’ll live out their time inside the dresser.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

We both sat there for a moment, staring silently at the moon, until Sensei finally said cheerfully, “Shall we have another drink?” He poured saké into our cups.

“Oops, there was still some tea left.”

“Saké cut with tea, right?”

“But saké doesn’t need to be cut with anything.”

“It’s quite all right, Sensei.”

As I murmured “Quite all right, quite all right,” I drank the saké in one gulp. Sensei was sipping his. The moon shone brightly on.

Suddenly, in a clear, resonant voice, Sensei recited,

 

“What is that, some kind of sutra?” I asked.

Sensei was indignant. “Tsukiko, you never paid attention in Japanese class, did you?” he said.

“You didn’t teach us that,” I replied.

“ That was Seihaku Irako, you see,” Sensei answered in a lecturing tone.

“I’ve never heard of Seihaku Irako,” I said as I took it upon myself to refill my own teacup with saké.

“It’s unusual for a woman to pour her own saké,” Sensei chided me.

“Oh, Sensei, you’re just old!” I retorted.

“Yes, I’m old, and hairy now too!” he mumbled as he too filled his own teacup to the brim.

Then he continued with the poem:

His eyes were closed, as if he too were listening attentively to his recitation. I gazed vacantly at the different batteries. They were silent and still in the pale light. The moon was once again enveloped in haze.

SENSEI INVITED ME to go along with him on a market day walk.

“Market days are the eighth, the eighteenth, and the twenty-eighth. This month, the twenty-eighth is a Sunday, so I thought that would suit your schedule,” Sensei said, taking his datebook out of the black briefcase he always carried with him.

“The twenty-eighth?” I repeated, slowly leafing through my own datebook, despite the fact that there was nothing at all in my schedule. “Yes, that day is fine,” I said with an air of importance. With a big round fountain pen, Sensei wrote on the twenty-eighth in his datebook, MARKET DAY, TSUKIKO, NOON, MINAMI-MACHI BUS STOP. He had excellent penmanship.

“Let’s meet at noon,” Sensei said as he put the datebook back in his briefcase. It would be unusual to see Sensei in the light of day. Sipping saké side by side in the dimly lit bar while we used our chopsticks to carve away at either chilled or warm tofu, depending on the season—that was how we usually saw each other. We never made plans, but always happened to meet by chance. Weeks went by when our paths didn’t cross, and there were stretches when we’d see each other every night.

“What kind of market did you say it is?” I asked while pouring saké into my cup.

“There’s only one kind of market, of course. You know, where they sell any kind of household item.”

I found it strange to imagine shopping for domestic things with Sensei, but I thought we would be able to get through the day. I too wrote NOON, MINAMI-MACHI BUS STOP in my datebook.

Sensei slowly drained his cup and refilled it himself. He tipped the saké bottle just slightly, which made a gurgling sound as he poured. But he didn’t aim the saké bottle right over his cup. Instead, he raised the bottle high over the cup, which sat on the bar, before tipping it. The saké fell in a thin stream, as if being drawn into the cup. He never spilled a drop. It was quite a skill. Once, I tried to imitate Sensei, lifting the saké bottle high and trying to pour, but I spilled almost all of it. It was such a waste. Since then, I grasp my cup firmly with my left hand and pour with the bottle in my right hand, just barely hovering over the cup. I’ve resigned myself to such gracelessness.

In fact, a former colleague once said to me, “Tsukiko, the way you pour really lacks allure.” The word “allure” seemed old-fashioned to me, but then again, the fact that it’s always the woman who is expected to pour, and to have “allure” when doing so, seemed antiquated too. I stared at my colleague with surprise. He must have gotten the wrong idea, though, because after we left the bar, he tried to pull me into a dark corner to kiss me. “Cut it out!” I said as I caught his looming face with both my hands and pushed him away.

“There’s nothing to be af raid of,” he whispered, peeling my hands away and coming in for another try. Everything about him was old-fashioned. It was all I could do to keep from bursting into laughter.

With a deadly serious expression and in an earnest tone, I said, “But today is such an unlucky day.”

“Unlucky?”

“Yes, today is a
tomobiki
day. But tomorrow is a red-letter day, a
kanoe-tora
!”

“Huh?”

I took that opportunity to quickly run off toward the subway entrance, leaving my colleague standing agape in the dark street. Even after I was down the stairs, I kept running. After making sure that he wasn’t following me, I ducked into the ladies’ room. I went to the bathroom and thoroughly washed my hands. As I looked at my reflection in the mirror, with my hair slightly out of place, I started to giggle.

Sensei did not like anyone to pour his drinks for him. Whether it was beer or saké, he meticulously poured for himself. One time, I filled Sensei’s first glass of beer for him. The moment I tipped the beer bottle toward his glass, I felt him flinch slightly—actually, more than slightly. But he didn’t say a word. When the glass was full, Sensei calmly raised it to his lips, offering a terse “Cheers,” and drank it down in one swallow. He downed the whole glassful, but he choked a little. I could tell that he had gulped it down in haste. No doubt he had wanted to finish it off as quickly as possible.

When I picked up the bottle of beer to refill his glass, Sensei sat up straight and said to me, “Thank you, that’s very kind. But I enjoy pouring for myself.”

I have not poured for him since. But every now and then, he still pours for me.

 

 

SENSEI ARRIVED AT the bus stop just after I did. I had gotten there fifteen minutes early, and he got there ten minutes early. It was a beautiful Sunday.

“These elms are so verdant, aren’t they?” Sensei said, looking up at the trees beside the bus stop. He was right—dense with leaves, the
branches of the elms waved in the breeze. Although the wind was light, high in the sky, the tops of the elms swayed even more grandly.

It was a hot summer day, but the low humidity kept it cool in the shade. We took the bus to Teramachi and then walked a little. Sensei was wearing a panama hat and a Hawaiian shirt in muted colors.

“That shirt looks nice on you,” I said.

“Oh, no, it doesn’t,” Sensei replied tersely, quickening his pace. We walked briskly along beside each other in silence, but then Sensei slowed down to ask, “Are you hungry?”

“Well, actually, I’m a little out of breath,” I replied.

Sensei smiled and said, “Well, if you hadn’t said such a strange thing.”

“I didn’t say anything strange. Sensei, you’re very well dressed.”

Without replying, Sensei went into the boxed-lunch shop in front of us.

“One kimchi pork special,” Sensei said to the girl at the counter. He prompted me with his eyes, “And for you?” There were too many things to choose from on the menu—it was bewildering.
Bibimbap
with egg appealed to me at first, but I decided I didn’t want a fried egg, which was the only option. After a moment’s hesitation, I became paralyzed by the sheer number of choices.

“I’ll have the kimchi pork too.” Lost in uncertainty, in the end I chose the same thing Sensei had ordered. He and I sat side by side on a bench in a corner of the shop while we waited for our lunches to be prepared.

“Sensei, you seem familiar with the menu here,” I said.

He nodded. “I live alone, you know. Do you cook, Tsukiko?”

“I cook when I’m seeing someone,” I answered.

Sensei nodded again seriously. “That makes sense. I think it would be good for me to see one or two people.”

“Two might be difficult.”

“Two would be the limit, I suppose.”

During this absurd chat, our lunches had been prepared. The girl put the two boxes, which were different sizes, into a plastic bag with handles. “Why are the boxes different sizes if we ordered the same thing?” I whispered to Sensei.

“But you ordered the regular, not the special, didn’t you?” Sensei replied in a low voice. When we went back outside, the wind had picked up a bit. Sensei carried the plastic bag with the boxed lunches in his right hand, and in his left hand he held his panama hat.

 

 

STALLS STARTED TO appear here and there on the street.There were stalls that only sold
tabi
boots. Stalls that sold collapsible umbrellas. Stalls for secondhand clothing. Stalls that sold used books mixed with new books. Soon, both sides of the street became tightly packed with stalls.

“You know, forty years ago, all of this was completely destroyed by heavy flooding from a typhoon.”

“Forty years ago?”

“Many people died too.”

Sensei went on explaining: “The market has been here for a long time. The year after the flood, there were many fewer stalls, but the following year, a full-scale market picked up again on each of the three monthly market days. The market flourished, and now almost all the stalls that used to run from the Teramachi bus stop all the way to the Kawasuji-nishi stop have come back, even on days other than those ending in eight.

“Come on over here,” Sensei said, stepping into a small park set away from the street. The park was deserted. Out on the street it teemed with people, but one step inside the park, here was a silent refuge. Sensei bought two cans of
genmaicha
tea from a machine at the entrance to the park.

We sat next to each other on a bench and took the lids off our lunches. The air immediately filled with the aroma of kimchi.

“Sensei, yours is the special, right?”

“That’s what they call it.”

“How is it different from the regular?”

We both bent our heads to examine the two boxed lunches.

“There doesn’t seem to be much difference at all,” Sensei said amiably.

I drank the
genmaicha
slowly. Although there was a breeze, the hot summer day had me craving a drink. The cool tea quenched my thirst as I sipped it.

“The way you’re eating that looks delicious,” Sensei said with a hint of envy as he watched me drizzle the leftover kimchi sauce over my rice. He had already finished eating.

“Excuse my poor manners.”

“It may well be bad manners, but it still looks delicious,” Sensei said, as he put the lid back on his empty boxed lunch and replaced the rubber band around it. The park was planted with alternating elm and cherry trees. The park must have been there a long time, because the trees had grown sturdy and tall.

After we passed a corner stall selling odds and ends, more and more of the stalls had grocery items for sale. Stalls selling only beans. Stalls with all different kinds of shellfish. There was a stall that had crates full of little shrimp or crabs. There was a banana stall. Sensei stopped to look at each one. He stood with perfect posture, peering at them from a slight distance.

“Tsukiko, that fish looks fresh.”

“There are flies swarming on it.”

“That’s what flies do.”

“Sensei, what about that chicken over there?”

“It’s a whole chicken, though. It’s too much trouble to pluck the feathers.”

We browsed past the stalls, chatting at random. The stalls became even more densely packed. They were tight up against each other,
and the voices of the vendors hawking their goods also vied with one another.

“Mom . . . These carrots look yummy,” a child said to his mother, who was carrying a shopping basket.

“I thought you hated carrots,” the mother said with surprise.

“But these carrots look especially good,” the child said brightly.

The proprietor of the stall raised his voice: “What a smart boy! That’s right, my vegetables are the best!”

“Those carrots do look good, don’t they?” Sensei said as he studied them earnestly.

“They look like any other carrots to me.”

“Hmm.”

Sensei’s panama hat was slightly askew. We walked, carried along by the throngs of people. From time to time, I would lose sight of Sensei amid the crowd. But at least I could rely on always being able to spot the top of his panama hat, so he was easy to find. For his part, Sensei seemed unconcerned about me. Much in the way a dog stops to sniff at every telephone pole, Sensei would simply stop and stare whenever a stall caught his interest.