i
The Lovers
“Oh gosh, is that the time? Sorry, I have to go,” the man mumbled evasively, as he stood up and reached for his bag.
“What?” the woman said.
She looked at him with uncertainty. She hadn’t heard him say it was over. But he had called her—his girlfriend of two years—to come out for a serious conversation...and now he had suddenly announced he was going to work in America. He was to leave immediately—in a few hours. Even without hearing the words, she knew now that the serious conversation was about breaking up. She knew now it was a mistake to have thought—to have hoped—that the serious conversation might have included “Will you marry me?” for example.
“What?” the man responded dryly. He didn’t make eye contact with her.
“Don’t I deserve an explanation?” she asked.
The woman spoke using a questioning tone the man particularly disliked. They were in a windowless basement café.
The lighting was provided by just six shaded lamps hanging from the ceiling and a single wall lamp near the entrance. A permanent sepia hue stained the café interior. Without a clock, there was no way to tell whether it was night or day.
There were three large antique wall clocks in the café. The arms of each, however, showed different times. Was this intentional? Or were they just broken? Customers on their first visit never understood why the clocks were like this. Their only option was to check their watches. The man did so now. While looking at the time on his watch, he started rubbing his fingers above his right eyebrow while his lower lip began to protrude slightly.
The woman found that expression particularly exasperating. “And why are you looking like that? Like I’m the one being a pain?” she blurted out.
“I’m not thinking that,” he replied sheepishly.
“Yes you are!” she insisted.
With bottom lip again protruding, he avoided her stare and offered no reply.
The man’s passive behavior was infuriating the woman more and more. She scowled. “You want it to be me who says it?”
She reached for her coffee, from which all heat had now gone. With the sweetest part of the experience lost, her mood plummeted further.
The man looked at his watch again and counted back from the boarding time. He had to leave the café very soon. Unable to compose himself, his fingers had found their way back to his eyebrow.
The sight of him so obviously hung up about the time annoyed her. She recklessly plunked the cup down on the table. It came down hard on the saucer. Clang!
The loud noise startled him. His fingers, which had been busy caressing his right eyebrow, began to pull at his hair. But then, after taking a short deep breath, he sat back down and looked her in the face. All of a sudden, his face was calm.
In fact, the man’s face had so clearly changed that the woman was quite taken aback. She looked down and stared at her hands clenched on her lap.
The man who had worried about time didn’t wait for the woman to look up. “Now, look...” he started. No longer muttering, he sounded collected and together.
But as if she was actively trying to stop his next words, the woman said, “Why don’t you just go?” She didn’t look up. The woman who wanted an explanation now refused to hear it. “It’s time for you to go, isn’t it?” she said, as petulantly as a child.
The man sat motionless as if time itself had stopped. He looked at her perplexed, as if he didn’t understand what she meant.
As if she was aware of how childish and unpleasant she sounded, she uncomfortably averted her eyes from the man and bit her lip. He rose from his seat, and spoke to the waitress standing behind the counter.
“Excuse me, I’d like to pay,” he said in a small voice. The man tried to grab the bill from their table, but the woman’s hand was pressing down on it.
“I’m going to stay a bit longer...so I’ll pay,” was what she meant to say, but he had pulled out the bill from under her hand with ease and was walking to the cash register. “Together, thanks.”
“Oh, I said leave it.”
Not moving from her chair, the woman reached out her hand to the man.
But the man refused to look at her. He pulled out a thousand-yen note from his wallet.
“Keep the change,” he said as he handed the waitress the note together with the bill. The man turned to the woman for a split second, his face filled with sadness, as he picked up his bag and left.
clang-dong
“...and that happened one week ago,” said Fumiko Kiyokawa. Her upper body flopped into a heap on the table like a deflating balloon. As she collapsed, she somehow avoided spilling the coffee cup in front of her.
The waitress and the customer seated at the counter who had been listening to Fumiko’s story looked at each other.
Before Fumiko had finished senior high school, she had already mastered six languages. After graduating top of her class from Waseda University, she joined a major medical technology firm in Tokyo. By her second year at the firm, she was already directing numerous projects. She was the epitome of the smart, career-driven woman.
Today, Fumiko was dressed in ordinary business attire: a white blouse and black skirt and jacket. Judging by her appearance, she was on her way home from work.
Fumiko’s looks were better than ordinary. Blessed with well-defined features and petite lips, she had the face of a pop idol. Her midlength black hair shone and crowned her with a glowing halo. Despite her conservative clothes, her exceptional figure was easy to discern. Like a model from a fashion magazine, she was a beautiful woman who would draw anyone’s gaze. Yes, she was a woman who combined intelligence and beauty. But whether she realized this was a different matter.
In the past, Fumiko hadn’t been one to dwell on such things—she had lived only for her work. Of course, this didn’t mean she had never had relationships. It’s just that they never had the same allure for her as work. “My work is my lover,” she would say. She had turned down approaches from many men, as though flicking away specks of dust.
The man she had been talking about was Goro Katada. Goro was a systems engineer, and like Fumiko, he was employed by a medical company, though it wasn’t a major one. He was her boyfriend—he was her boyfriend—and three years her junior. They had met two years ago via a client for which they were both doing a project.
One week ago, Goro had asked Fumiko to meet for a “serious conversation.” She had arrived at the meeting place in an elegant pale-pink dress with a beige spring coat and white pumps, having caught the attention of all the men she had passed on the way there. It was a new look for Fumiko. She was such a workaholic that, before her relationship with Goro, she had owned no other clothes but suits. Suits were what she had worn on dates with Goro as well—after all, they mostly met after work.
Goro had said serious conversation, and Fumiko had interpreted this as meaning that the conversation was going to be special. So, filled with expectation, she had bought an outfit especially.
They arrived at their chosen café to find a sign on the window saying it was closed due to unforeseen circumstances. Fumiko and Goro were disappointed. The café would have been ideal for a serious conversation as each table was in a private booth.
Left with no choice but to find another suitable place, they noticed a small sign down a quiet side street. As it was a basement café, they had no way of knowing what it was like inside, but Fumiko was attracted by its name, which came from the lyrics of a song she used to sing as a child, and they agreed to go in.
Fumiko regretted her decision as soon as she peered inside. It was smaller than she had imagined. The café had counter and table seats but with just three seats at the counter and three two-seater tables, it only took nine customers to fill the place.
Unless the serious conversation currently weighing on Fumiko’s mind was to be held in whispers, the entire thing would be overheard. Another negative was the way that everything appeared as in sepia owing to the few shaded lamps...it was not to her taste at all.
A place for shady deals...
That was Fumiko’s first impression of this café. She nervously made her way to the only empty table and sat down. There were three other customers and one waitress in the café. At the furthest table sat a woman in a white short-sleeved dress quietly reading a book. At the table closest to the entrance sat a dull-looking man. A travel magazine was spread open on the table and he was jotting notes in a tiny notebook. The woman seated at the counter wore a bright red camisole and green leggings. A sleeveless kimono jacket hung on the back of her chair, and she still had curlers in her hair. She glanced fleetingly at Fumiko, grinning broadly as she did. At several points during Fumiko and Goro’s conversation, the woman made a remark to the waitress and let off a raucous laugh.
On hearing Fumiko’s explanation a week later, the woman in curlers said, “I see...”
Actually, she didn’t see at all—she was just following up with the appropriate response. Her name was Yaeko Hirai. One of the café regulars, she had just turned thirty and ran a nearby snack, or hostess, bar. She always came in for a cup of coffee before work. Her curlers were in again, but today she was wearing a revealing yellow tube top, a bright red miniskirt and vivid purple leggings. Hirai was sitting cross-legged on the counter chair while listening to Fumiko.
“It was one week ago. You remember, don’t you?” Fumiko stood up and directed her attention across the counter to the waitress.
“Hmm...yeah,” the waitress answered uneasily, not looking at Fumiko’s face.
The waitress’s name was Kazu Tokita. Kazu was a cousin of the proprietor. She was waitressing while attending Tokyo University of the Arts. She had quite a pretty face, a pale complexion and narrow almond-shaped eyes, yet her features were not memorable. It was the type of face that if you glanced at it, closed your eyes and then tried to remember what you saw, nothing would come to mind. In a word, she was inconspicuous. She had no presence. She didn’t have many friends either. Not that she worried about it—Kazu was the sort of person who found interpersonal relationships rather tedious.
“So...what about him? Where is he now?” Hirai asked, playing with the cup in her hand, not seeming very interested.
“America,” Fumiko said, puffing out her cheeks.
“So your boyfriend chose work, then?” Hirai had a gift for getting to the heart of the matter.
“No, that’s not right!” Fumiko protested.
“Eh? But that is right, isn’t it? He went to America, didn’t he?” Hirai said. She was having a hard time understanding Fumiko.
“Didn’t you understand when I explained?” Fumiko said vehemently.
“What bit?”
“I wanted to scream out don’t go but I was too proud.”
“Not many women would admit that!” Hirai leaned back with a snicker, slipped off balance and nearly fell off the chair.
Fumiko ignored Hirai’s reaction. “You understood, right?” she said, looking for support from Kazu.
Kazu feigned a moment’s contemplation. “Basically you’re saying you didn’t want him to go to America, right?”
Kazu was also one to get straight to the point. “Well basically, I guess...no, I didn’t. But...”
“You’re a difficult one to understand,” Hirai said jovially, after seeing that Fumiko was struggling to reply.
If Hirai had been in Fumiko’s place, she would have just broken down in tears. “Don’t go!” she would have screamed. Of course, they would have been crocodile tears. Tears are a woman’s weapon. That was Hirai’s philosophy.
Fumiko turned to Kazu at the counter. Her eyes were glistening. “Anyway, I want you to transport me back to that day...that day one week ago!” she pleaded, totally straight-faced.
Hirai was first to respond to the lunacy of requesting to be sent back to one week ago. “Back in time, she says...” She looked to Kazu with raised eyebrows.
Looking uncomfortable, Kazu simply muttered, “Oh...” and didn’t add anything further.
Several years had passed since the café had its moment of fame because of an urban legend that claimed it could transport people back to the past. Uninterested in that kind of thing, Fumiko had allowed it to fade from her memory. Visiting a week ago was complete happenstance. But last night, she had watched a variety program on TV. In the introduction, the host spoke about “urban legends,” and like a bolt of lightning striking inside her head, she remembered the café. The café that transports you back in time. It was an incomplete memory, but she remembered that key phrase clearly.
If I return to the past, I might be able to set things right. I might be able to have a conversation with Goro once more. She replayed this fanciful wish over and over in her mind. She became obsessed and lost any ability to make a levelheaded judgement.
The next morning she went to work, completely forgetting to eat breakfast. There, her mind was not on the job. She sat there, obsessed with the passing time. I just want to make sure. She wanted to find out either way as soon as possible. Her day at work was a long string of careless mistakes. So sporadic was her attention that a colleague asked if she was okay. By the end of the day, she had reached peak scatterbrain.
It took her thirty minutes to get from her company to the café by train. She pretty much ran the last stretch from the station. Entering the café feeling quite breathless, she’d walked up to Kazu.
“Please send me back to the past!” she’d pleaded before Kazu could even finish saying, Hello, welcome.
Her excitement had continued in that vein until she had finished her explanation. But now, looking at the reaction of the two women, she felt ill at ease.
Hirai just continued to stare at her with a smirk on her face, ...
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