Shimamoto finished her daiquiri, put the gla.s.s on the counter, and called the bartender over. "Do you have any special house c.o.c.ktail you'd recommend?"

"We have several original c.o.c.ktails," I said. "The most popular one's Robin's Nest, after the bar. A little thing I whipped up myself. You use rum and vodka as a base. It's easy going down, but it packs a wallop."

"Sounds good for wooing women."

"Well, I thought that was the whole point of c.o.c.ktails."

She smiled. "Okay, I'll try one."

When the c.o.c.ktail was placed in front of her, she gazed at the color, then took a tentative sip. She closed her eyes and let the flavor take over. "It's a very subtle taste, isn't it," she said. "Not exactly sweet or tart. A light, simple flavor, but with some body. I had no idea you were so talented."

"I can't build a simple shelf. I have no idea how to change an oil filter on a car. I can't even paste on a postage stamp straight. And I'm always dialing the wrong number. But I have come up with a few original c.o.c.ktails that people seem to like."

She rested her gla.s.s on a coaster and looked at it for a while. When she tipped the gla.s.s, the reflection of the overhead lights shivered slightly.

"I haven't seen my mother for a long time. There was a blowup about ten years ago, and I've barely seen her since. Of course, we did see each other at my father's funeral."

The piano trio finished an original blues number and began the intro to "Star-Crossed Lovers." When I was in the bar, the pianist would often strike up that ballad, knowing it was a favorite of mine. It wasn't one of Ellington's best-known tunes, and I had no particular memories a.s.sociated with it; just happened to hear it once, and it struck some chord within me. From college to those bleak textbook-company years, come evening I'd listen to the Such Sweet Thunder Such Sweet Thunder alb.u.m, the "Star-Crossed Lovers" track over and over. Johnny Hodges had this sensitive and elegant solo on it. Whenever I heard that languid, beautiful melody, those days came back to me. It wasn't what I'd characterize as a happy part of my life, living as I was, a balled-up ma.s.s of unfulfilled desires. I was much younger, much hungrier, much more alone. But I was myself, pared down to the essentials. I could feel each single note of music, each line I read, seep down deep inside me. My nerves were sharp as a blade, my eyes shining with a piercing light. And every time I heard that music, I recalled my eyes then, glaring back at me from a mirror. alb.u.m, the "Star-Crossed Lovers" track over and over. Johnny Hodges had this sensitive and elegant solo on it. Whenever I heard that languid, beautiful melody, those days came back to me. It wasn't what I'd characterize as a happy part of my life, living as I was, a balled-up ma.s.s of unfulfilled desires. I was much younger, much hungrier, much more alone. But I was myself, pared down to the essentials. I could feel each single note of music, each line I read, seep down deep inside me. My nerves were sharp as a blade, my eyes shining with a piercing light. And every time I heard that music, I recalled my eyes then, glaring back at me from a mirror.

"You know," I said, "once, when I was in the last year of junior high, I did go to see you. I felt so lonely I couldn't stand it any longer. I tried calling you, but there was no answer. I rode the train over to your place, but someone else's name was on the mailbox."

"My father was transferred, and we moved two years after you did. To Fujisawa, near Enoshima. And that's where we remained until I went to college. I sent you a postcard with our new address on it. You never got it?"

I shook my head. "If I had, I would have written back. Strange, though. Must have been some slipup somewhere along the line."

"Or maybe we're just unlucky," she said. "Lots of slipups, and we end up missing each other. But anyway, I want to hear about you you. What kind of life you've had."

"It'll bore you to tears," I said.

"I don't care. I still want to hear it."

So I gave her a general recap of my life. How I'd had a girlfriend in high school but ended up hurting her badly. I spared her the gory details. I explained how something had happened and I had hurt this girl. And in the process ended up hurting myself. How I went to college in Tokyo and worked at a textbook company. How my twenties were filled with friendless, lonely days. I went out with women but was never happy. How from the time I graduated from high school until I met Yukiko and got married, I never really liked anyone. How I thought of her often then, thought how great it would be if we could see each other, even for an hour, and talk. Shimamoto smiled.

"You thought about me?"

"All the time."

"I thought about you too," she said. "Whenever I felt bad. You were the only friend I've ever had, Hajime." Her chin resting in one hand propped up on the bar, she closed her eyes as if all the strength had been drained from her body. She didn't wear any rings. The down on her arms trembled. At last she slowly opened her eyes and looked at her watch. I looked at it too. It was nearly midnight.

She picked up her handbag and slipped off the stool. "Good night. I'm happy I could see you."

I saw her to the door. "Shall I call you a cab? It's raining, so it might be hard to grab one. If you're thinking of going home by cab, that is."

Shimamoto shook her head. "It's all right. Don't go to any trouble. I can take care of myself."

"You really weren't disappointed?" I asked.

"In you?"

"Yes."

"No, I wasn't" She smiled. "Rest easy. But that suit-it is is an Armani, isn't it?" an Armani, isn't it?"

She wasn't dragging her leg the way she used to. She didn't move very quickly, and if you looked closely, there was something vaguely artificial about the way she walked. Though overall it looked perfectly natural.

"I had an operation four years ago," she said almost apologetically. "I wouldn't say it's a hundred percent but it's certainly not as bad as it used to be. It was a big operation, with a lot of sc.r.a.ping of bones, patching them together. But things went well."

"That's great. Your leg looks fine now," I said.

"It is," she said. "Probably it was a good decision. Though maybe I waited too long."

I got her coat from the cloakroom and helped her into it Standing next to me, she wasn't very tall. It seemed strange. When we were twelve, we were about the same height "Shimamoto-san. Will I see you again?"

"Probably," she replied. A smile played around her mouth. A smile like a small wisp of smoke drifting quietly skyward on a windless day. "Probably."

She opened the door and went out. Five minutes later, I went up the stairs to the street. I was worried she'd had trouble flagging down a cab. It was still raining. And Shimamoto was nowhere to be seen. The street was deserted. The headlights of pa.s.sing cars blurred the wet pavement.

Maybe I had had an illusion, I thought I stood there a long time, gazing at the rainswept streets. Once again I was a twelve-year-old boy staring for hours at the rain. Look at the rain long enough, with no thoughts in your head, and you gradually feel your body falling loose, shaking free of the world of reality. Rain has the power to hypnotize.

But this had been no illusion. When I went back into the bar, a gla.s.s and an ashtray remained where she had been. A couple of lightly crushed cigarette b.u.t.ts were lined up in the ashtray, a faint trace of lipstick on each. I sat down and closed my eyes. Echoes of music faded away, leaving me alone. In that gentle darkness, the rain continued to fall without a sound.

9.

I didn't see Shimamoto for a long time after that. Every evening, I sat at the counter of the Robin's Nest, pa.s.sing the time. I read books, glancing every once in a while at the front door. But she didn't show up. I was afraid I'd said something wrong, something I shouldn't have, that upset her. One by one, I reviewed every word we'd spoken that night. But I couldn't come up with anything. Maybe Shimamoto was was disappointed. A distinct possibility. She was so beautiful, and her leg was all fixed. What in the world would a woman like that find in me? disappointed. A distinct possibility. She was so beautiful, and her leg was all fixed. What in the world would a woman like that find in me?

The year drew to a close, Christmas came and went as did New Year's. My thirty-seventh birthday rolled around. And January was suddenly over. I gave up waiting for her and only rarely made an appearance at the Robin's Nest. Being there reminded me of her, causing me to search the faces of the customers in vain. I sat at the bar of my other place, flipping through the pages of books, lost in aimless musings. For the life of me, I couldn't concentrate.

She'd told me I was the only friend she'd ever had. That made me happy and gave birth to the hope that we might be friends again. I wanted to talk with her about so many things, hear her opinion. If she didn't want to say a thing about herself, fine by me. Just to be able to see her, to talk with her, that was enough.

But she didn't come. Maybe she was too busy to find time to see me, I mused. But three months was way too long a gap. Even supposing she couldn't come to see me, at least she could pick up the phone and call. She'd forgotten all about me, I decided. I wasn't so important to her, after all. That hurt, as if a small hole had opened up in my heart. She never should have said that she might come again. Promises-even vague ones like that-linger in your mind.

But in early February, again on a rainy night she appeared. It was a quiet, freezing rain. Something had come up, and I was at the Robin's Nest earlier than usual. The customers' umbrellas carried with them the scent of the chilly rain. A tenor saxophonist had joined the usual piano trio to play a few numbers. He was pretty well known, and a stir ran through the crowd. As always, I sat on my corner stool at the bar, reading. Shimamoto sat down quietly beside me.

"Good evening," she said.

I put down my book and looked at her. I couldn't quite believe my eyes.

"I was sure you weren't ever coming here again."

"Forgive me," she said. "Are you angry?"

"I'm not angry. I don't get angry at things like that. This is a bar, after all. People come when they want to, leave when they feel like it. My job's just to wait for them."

"Well, anyway, I'm sorry. I can't explain it, but I just couldn't come."

"Busy?"

"No, not busy," she replied quietly. "I just couldn't come here."

Her hair was wet from the rain. A couple of strands were pasted to her forehead. I had the waiter bring a towel.

"Thanks," she said, and dried her hair. She took out a cigarette and lit it with her lighter. Her fingers, wet and chilled from the rain, trembled slightly.

"It was only sprinkling, and I thought I'd catch a cab, so I just wore a raincoat. But I started walking, and ended up walking a long way."

"How about something hot to drink?" I asked.

She looked deep into my eyes and smiled. "Thanks. I'm okay."

In an instant that smile made me forget the three months.

"What are you reading?" She pointed to my book.

I showed it to her. A history of the Sino-Vietnam border conflict after the Vietnam War. She flipped through it and handed it back.

"You don't read novels anymore?"

"I do. But not as many as I used to. I don't know anything about new novels. I only like old ones, mostly from the nineteenth century. Ones I've read before."

"What's wrong with new novels?"

"I guess I'm afraid of being disappointed. Reading trashy novels makes me feel I'm wasting time. It wasn't always that way. I used to have lots of time, so even though I knew they were junk, I still felt something good would come from reading them. Now it's different. Must be getting old."

"Yes, well, it is true you're getting older," she said, and gave an impish smile.

"What about you? Do you still read a lot?" I asked.

"Yes, all the time. New books, old books. Novels and everything else. Trashy books, good books. I'm probably the opposite of you-I don't mind reading to kill time."

She asked the bartender to make her a Robin's Nest. I ordered the same. She took a sip of her drink, nodded slightly, and returned the gla.s.s to the countertop.

"Hajime, why are the c.o.c.ktails here always so much better than at any other bar?"

"'Cause we do our best to make them that way," I replied. "No effort, no result."

"What kind of effort do you mean?"

"Take him, for instance," I said, indicating the handsome young bartender, who, all serious concentration, was busy breaking up a chunk of ice with an ice pick. "I pay him a lot of money. Which is a secret as far as the other employees are concerned. The reason for the high salary is his talent at mixing great drinks. Most people don't realize it, but good c.o.c.ktails demand talent. Anyone can make pa.s.sable drinks with a little effort. Spend a few months training, and anyone can make your standard-issue mixed drink-the kind most bars serve. But if you want to take it to the next level, you've got to have a special flair. Same with playing the piano, painting, running the hundred-meter dash. Now take me: I think I can mix up a pretty mean c.o.c.ktail. I've studied and practiced. But there's no way I can compete with him. I put in exactly the same liquor, shake the shaker for exactly the same amount of time, and guess what-it doesn't taste as good. I have no idea why. All I can call it is talent. It's like art. There's a line only certain people can cross. So once you find someone with talent, you'd best take good care of them and never let them go. Not to mention pay them well." The bartender was gay, so sometimes other gays gathered at the counter. They were a quiet bunch, and it didn't bother me. I really liked the young bartender, and he trusted me and worked hard.

"Maybe you have more talent at running a business than would appear," Shimamoto said.

"'Fraid I don't," I said. "I don't really consider myself a businessman. I just happen to own two small bars. And I don't plan to open any more, or to earn much more than I do right now. Can't call what I do talent. But you know, sometimes I imagine things, pretending I'm a customer. If I were a customer, what kind of bar I'd go to, what kind of things I'd like to eat and drink. If I were a bachelor in my twenties, what kind of place would I take a girl to? How much could I spend? Where would I live and how late could I stay out? All sorts of scenarios. The more scenarios I come up with, the more focused my image of the bar becomes."

Shimamoto had on a light-blue turtleneck sweater and a navy-blue skirt. Small earrings glittered at her ears. Her tight-fitting sweater revealed the shape of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I suddenly found it hard to breathe.

"Go on," she said. Once again that happy smile came to her lips.

"About what?"

"Your business philosophy," she said. "I love to hear you talk that way."

I blushed a little, something I hadn't done in a long while. "I wouldn't call it a business philosophy. You know, this whole process is one I've been doing since I was little: Thinking about all kinds of things, letting my imagination take over. Constructing an imaginary place in my head and little by little adding details to it. Changing this and that to suit me. Like I told you, after college I worked for a long time in a textbook company. The work was a complete bore. Absolutely no room for using your imagination. I was sick of it. I couldn't stand to go to work anymore. I felt like I was choking, like every day I was shrinking and someday I would disappear completely."

I took a sip of my drink and glanced around the bar. A nice crowd, considering the rain. The tenor sax player was putting his instrument away in a case. I called the waiter over and had him take a bottle of whiskey to the saxophonist ask him if he'd like something to eat.

"But here it's different," I continued. "You have to use your imagination to survive. And you can put your ideas into practice immediately. No meetings, no executives here. No precedents to worry about or Ministry of Education position papers to contend with. Believe me, it's great. Have you ever worked in a company?"

She smiled and shook her head. "No."

"Consider yourself lucky. Me and companies just don't get along. I don't think you'd find it any different. Eight years working there convinced me. Eight years down the tubes. My twenties-the best years of all. Sometimes I wonder how I put it up with it for so long. I guess that's what I had to go through, though, to wind up where I am today. Now I love my job. You know, sometimes my bars feel like imaginary places I created in my mind. Castles in the air. I plant some flowers here, construct a fountain there, crafting everything with great care. People stop by, have drinks, listen to music, talk, and go home. People are willing to spend a lot of money to come all this way to have some drinks-and do you know why? Because everyone's seeking the same thing: an imaginary place, their own castle in the air, and their very own special corner of it."

Shimamoto extracted a Salem from her small purse. Before she could take out her lighter, I struck a match and lit her cigarette. I liked to light her cigarettes and watch her eyes narrow as she stared at the flickering flame.

"I haven't worked a single day in my life," she said.

"Not even once?"

"Not even once. Not even a part-time job. Labor is totally alien to me. That's why I envy you. I'm always alone, reading books. And any thoughts that happen to occur to me have to do with spending money, not making it." She stretched both arms out in front of me. On her right arm she wore two thin gold bracelets, on her left arm an expensive-looking gold watch. She kept her arms in front of me for a long while, as if they were displaying goods for sale. I took her right hand in mine and gazed for a time at the gold bracelets. I recalled her holding my hand when I was twelve. I could remember exactly how it felt And how it had thrilled me.

"I don't know ... maybe thinking about ways to spend money is best, after all," I said. I let go of her hand and felt that I was about to drift away somewhere. "When you're always scheming about ways to make money, it's like a part of you is lost."

"But you don't know how empty it feels not to be able to create anything."

"I'm sure you've created more things than you realize."

"What sort of things?"

"Things you can't see," I replied. I examined my hands, resting on my knees.

She held her gla.s.s and looked at me for a long while. "You mean like feelings?"

"Right," I said. "Everything disappears someday. Like this barit won't go on forever. People's tastes change, and a minor fluctuation in the economy is all it'd take for it to go under. I've seen it happen; it doesn't take much. Things that have form will all disappear. But certain feelings stay with us forever."

"But you know, Hajime, some feelings cause us pain because because they remain. Don't you think so?" they remain. Don't you think so?"

The tenor saxophonist came over to thank me for the whiskey. I complimented him on his performance.

"Jazz musicians these days are so polite," I explained to Shimamoto. "When I was in college, that wasn't the case. They all took drugs, and at least half of them were deadbeats. But sometimes you could hear these performances that would blow you away. I was always listening to jazz at the jazz clubs in Shinjuku. Always looking to be blown away."

"You like those kinds of people, don't you."

"Must be," I said. "People want to be bowled over by something special. Nine times out of ten you might strike out but that tenth time, that peak experience, is what people want. That's what can move the world. That's art."