Ashes, p.1
Ashes, page 1
Copyright © 2003 by Kenzo Kitakata
All rights reserved.
Published by Vertical,
an imprint of Kodansha USA Publishing, LLC
Originally published in Japanese as Bo no kanashimi by Shinchosha, Tokyo, 1990.
ISBN 9781932234022
Ebook ISBN 9781647292447
Book design by Studio 5E
First American Edition
Kodansha USA Publishing, LLC
451 Park Avenue South, 7th Floor
New York, NY 10016
www.kodansha.us
a_prh_6.0_142455967_c1_r2
CONTENTS
Part One
THE MAN WITHIN
WIND
PIGEONS
EIGHT YEARS
HOURGLASS
PROFILE
TABLECLOTH
ASHES
Part Two
WITHIN THE MAN
PRISON OF WATER
BATHING
LIKE A DOG
Part One
THE HAN WITHIN
WIND
Inside, it was dark. A few scattered pools of light highlighted the darkness. The man walked straight across the room and headed for the bar.
“Lose the jazz,” he said, in a low but penetrating voice.
Apart from his voice, he seemed ordinary enough: gray suit, understated tie, close-cropped hair. To look at him, anyone would have assumed he was just another company man who’d dropped in for a quick drink.
“I can’t stand jazz. Didn’t you know that?”
The bartender smiled, but said nothing. The man rested an elbow on the counter and turned toward the billiard table, a faint smile on his lips.
A shaded canopy light hung over the table, shining down on the green baize and the balls that rolled across it.
The only other illuminated area was a 2-foot circle of light cast onto the counter from a spotlight in the ceiling. It was where the bartender mixed his drinks so that rainbow-colored concoctions would look dazzling.
It gave away that the place was new.
The bar counter and the stools in front of it were made of old recycled wood. Someone had gone to the effort of staining all the light bulbs brown with what may or may not have been real cigarette tar.
The sharp crack of billiard balls echoed across the room, and music came on again as if to drown out the sound.
“This all you got?” the man said. The air of ordinariness that hung around him vanished the second he opened his mouth to speak.
“But this isn’t jazz, sir.”
“No, it’s even noisier.”
“You’d prefer something a little quieter, I take it?”
“Something like that.”
“I’ll put something slow on next, then, soon as this track gets done.”
The man nodded, and deep lines appeared in the skin around his neck. The wrinkles in his face, too, were more pronounced when he spoke.
“Bourbon soda,” he said, still looking over at the billiard table. The bartender fell silent, and placed a glass on the counter.
From the billiard table there came the sound of balls sliding into pockets, followed by a smattering of applause. The man turned back to the counter and reached for his glass.
“What bourbon do you use?”
“Four Roses. Usually do, ’less the customer asks specifically for something else.”
“Not bad.”
Another ripple of applause drifted over from the billiard table, but this time the man didn’t bother to look.
The bartender placed a cocktail glass on the counter, where it glinted in the spotlight that shone from the ceiling. He whipped down bottles, barely checking the label, and poured from each into a cocktail shaker. It was only when he poured that he seemed to take care.
He got to work mixing the drinks, and for a while the rattling of the shaker drowned out the sound of clacking billiard balls.
A pale blue liquid streamed down into the shimmering glass on the counter.
“So that’s all there is to it, huh?”
“To what, sir?”
“Cocktails.”
“I do something wrong?”
“Nah. Just too damn fancy for me.”
“Well, every place’s got its selling point, right?”
“Should be about the taste.”
“Well, we are known for that, too.”
A waiter came over and put the cocktail on his tray, then carried it away.
“Hey, I thought I told you I don’t like jazz.”
The bartender looked up as if he’d just remembered, and changed the music.
“What’s this?”
“It’s from a movie. Pretty old one.”
The man nodded, but didn’t prompt the bartender for further details.
“Can’t stand jazz.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind from now on.”
“What, you think I’ve never been here before?”
“Isn’t that the case?”
“I pass this way all the time.”
“It’s the first time you’ve actually been inside, though, right?”
“I don’t know. Could be.”
“We only opened about two months back.”
“What’re you talking about? This place’s been here for at least five years.”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“I’m sure it was here five years ago.”
The bartender started to say something, but stopped himself short. The man leaned across the counter.
“Listen. It’s been here five years, I’m telling you.”
The bartender nodded slightly.
Laughter from the pool table.
The door opened and a woman came in by herself. She stood in the doorway for a while taking the place in and then walked over to the bar.
“Bloody Mary,” she said, in a slightly high-pitched voice. Her long fingernails were painted silver. She tapped them lightly against the surface of the counter, as though she were scratching at something.
“Bloody Mary, right?” the bartender said. He sounded much more relaxed and cheerful now than when he was talking to the man.
“Not a bad place you got here,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“Never even knew of it.”
“We just opened a couple months back,” the bartender replied, glancing over at the man as he spoke.
“So billiards is the big thing these days, huh?”
“Yeah, actually we wanted to have two tables, but—”
“Takes up more space than you thought? The extra room to cue up and stuff.”
“You play yourself?”
“Not really. I only know eight-ball.”
“Plenty of people here’ll give you a game if you feel like it.”
The man pushed his empty glass over to the bartender. Silently, the bartender added ice and poured in some more bourbon, and soda.
“Do it over,” the man said, peering into his glass. The woman glanced over at him as if she’d just noticed him.
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t like the way you made it.”
“What didn’t you like about it?”
“My glass wasn’t empty. And it wasn’t soda. Melted ice-water.”
“So?”
“I asked for a bourbon soda.”
“Ice melts, sir.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that.”
The woman looked at the man again. She didn’t seem irritated. Simply curious. She lifted a hand to her head and smoothed back her hair with her long, painted fingernails.
“I said do it over.”
“But, sir.”
“Don’t argue with me, kid. Just do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The bartender rinsed out the glass. The low, clunking rattle of ice cubes mingled with the clacking of billiard balls.
“The customer’s always right,” the man said.
“I know. Another bourbon soda, was it?”
“I don’t think I like your tone.”
“Sorry?”
“Talking to me like you’re talking to some kid.”
“Surely you’re joking, sir.”
“I ain’t some kid.”
“I’m quite aware of that, sir.”
“You are, huh? You know, I don’t think you are.”
“What can I say? You’re not drunk, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
The bartender handed him a fresh bourbon soda. The man reached out for it silently.
“How do you like it?”
“I had to tell you how to make it, and you ask me?”
The man squinted as he brought the glass to his lips, as though smoke were stinging his eyes. Tiny fizzing bubbles were bursting from the unstirred bourbon soda.
“How come you didn’t stir it?”
“Most people prefer it that way, sir. The soda loses its fizz if you stir it up.”
“Looked to me like you didn’t think it worth your trouble.”
“But that’s how I made the first one too, sir.”
“That so?”
“You don’t like it?”
“I bet you’re gonna t ell me that’s the way you do it here whether I like it or not.”
“In a word, sir, yes.”
The bartender laughed, and the man smiled faintly too. He looked close to forty when he smiled. Strangely, as the smile faded, he looked younger again.
The woman was staring at him quite openly now, as she sipped at her Bloody Mary.
“Something bothering you?” the man asked.
“Not really. Just had a feeling I’d seen you before.”
“Well I don’t know you, sister.”
“Oh?”
The woman wasn’t exactly young. Dressed in black. There was a small silver design the same color as her fingernails sewn across her breast.
“Notice what’s playing?” the man asked the bartender.
The film song had finished and the music had changed. The bartender made no move to do anything about it.
“Didn’t I tell you twice already I can’t stand jazz?”
“The other customers prefer this kind of music. We can’t have a movie soundtrack playing the whole time.”
“Well, I don’t like jazz. I told you that already. I didn’t notice anyone coming over to complain about the movie soundtrack.”
“Maybe they were just being polite.”
“Nobody’s listening anyway. They’re all too busy with their game.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t have it all your way.”
“I don’t think I’m asking for much.”
“Establishments have to have a certain ambience, and we try to maintain ours.”
“You saying I don’t fit in with your ‘ambience’?”
“To be honest, sir, I think you’d be better off in one of the bars by the station. They’ll play movie soundtracks and traditional songs for you all night long if you want them to.”
“Okay. I get the message.”
“And don’t worry about the check, sir. It’s on the house.”
“You telling me to scram?”
“You can’t be comfortable here—with such noisy music playing.”
“Step out.”
“Huh?”
“That revelry over at the pool table is better for your ‘ambience’ than me?”
“Well, yes, sir. To put it bluntly.”
“Patience, kid. What did you do before you started here?”
“What’s that got to do with you?”
“I said step out. Telling me to scram because I have bad taste, you prick.”
“Give me a break, sir.”
“Don’t make me mad. Please don’t make me mad.”
“You seem pretty mad already.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry about the check, sir.”
The man rose.
“Thinks I do this for free drinks,” he muttered. Turning toward the woman, he smiled faintly. Then he turned around and walked over to the billiard table.
A young man stood poised to shoot. Just a kid, probably still in his teens. He looked up and scowled at the man as he came close.
Walking up to the kid, the man held out his hand and grabbed hold of the cue.
“What do you want?” the kid complained, but let go of the stick.
Suddenly the man leapt up onto the billiard table. He swung the cue hard at the lighting over the table. A feast of sound, and the light died. Pool balls shot toward the bar and smashed into bottles lined up behind the bartender. The green baize was trampled. Shouts. The men lounging in the back got on their feet, in unison. They stood up but didn’t move toward the man.
The kid whose cue the man had taken was still rooted to the spot by the table. A shoe sliced the air. The kid went down like timber and sprayed vomit about him.
An instant later, the man had jumped off the table, and the spotlight above the counter was in smithereens. There was no sign of the woman at the bar.
The man held out the cue toward the shelves. Bottles fell, one by one. The bartender let out a few squeals.
The man grinned. He was taking his time. He turned to smashing the wooden stools against the counter.
A waiter hurled himself at the man’s waist. In one fluid motion the waiter’s body floated and came down on the floor. Openmouthed, he stared up at the man and stayed down on his hands and knees.
The man did no more violence. He walked past the counter slowly and returned the cue to its place in the rack.
He pinched a crest of the trampled green baize lightly with his fingertips. He smiled, but the smile was not there for long.
Jazz was playing in the background. There was no other sound.
“What do I owe you?” the man said, breaking the silence at last. His voice was as low as ever, and he wasn’t out of breath. The bartender stood with his mouth open, unanswering.
“Where’s my check?”
“Don’t worry about it.” There was a slight tremble in the bartender’s voice.
“I want my check.”
The door opened. Another one of the waiters came rushing in with a cop.
“All right Tanaka, take it easy,” the cop said. The man he had called Tanaka stood unmoving.
Another cop hurried in through the door. The man nodded and held out his wrists, but instead of cuffing him, they just grabbed him by the arm on each side.
The kid he’d kicked and the waiter he’d flung to the floor were taken along with him.
“Holy shit,” the bartender muttered. “What a fucking drunk.”
“That man wasn’t drunk.” It was the woman. She stood by the counter, one hand on it. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Two bourbon sodas. Maybe he was just pissed off and looking for trouble.”
“He came to destroy this place.”
“You think so?”
“When he got up, he had a look on his face—like he had a job to do. Like he didn’t really want to do it.”
“You mean—”
“Did you piss them off somehow?”
“They demanded a cut of the profits. But I thought that kind of thing was history.”
“You’d have gotten off lighter.” The woman put a cigarette between her lips—Marlboro Menthols, not a brand you saw every day in Japan. The other customers were starting to talk again, excitedly.
“Not much you can do about it now.”
“Come to think of it, the damage isn’t that serious. I guess we need to get the table fixed before anyone comes here again to play pool, though.”
“I see.”
Behind them, the waiter was starting to clean things up. A gust of wind had swept through the place—that’s how it seemed.
The music had stopped. The bartender stood shaking his head.
“I’m not gonna take this lying down.”
“Well, don’t try too hard,” the woman advised. Her hands were wrapped around her Bloody Mary, the same one as before.
“Quite an experience—in just our second month,” the bartender said.
“I’d be careful.”
“You think that wasn’t his last visit?”
“Who knows.”
“The police will protect us. We pay our taxes.”
The woman sat down on a stool. The bartender set down an ashtray in front of her and humphed.
“Fifteen or sixteen bottles broken, not that many,” he said. The smell of alcohol was everywhere.
“Wait a minute.” The bartender cocked his head. “Uhoh.”
“What?”
“They took that customer. And one of the waiters.”
“Why not? Victims of the crime.”
“They’re high school students.”
“High school?”
“Seventeen and eighteen. They’re underage. The waiter’s only seventeen.”
“Oops.”
“Maybe the police will want to talk to us.”
“Probably close you down for a few months.”
“Damn it.”
“Maybe that’s what he had in mind, that man.”
“Shit.”
With a shrug, the woman downed what was left of her Bloody Mary. The bartender wasn’t looking at the woman anymore. He didn’t seem to be looking at anything.
“Maybe he wanted to ruin you.”
“Ruin?”
“If that was a ‘job’ he was doing.”
“No.”
“Well, the cops knew him. Tanaka, they called him.”
“The cops….”
The woman set her empty glass on the counter. Quietly, she ordered another.
