Cleopatra and Frankenstein(102)
“You need to give me five hundred dollars,” said Zoe.
She had realized on the walk over that there had been no discussion of money. She’d decided on $500 because it seemed comfortably midrange, enough to prove she was no amateur, but not enough to spook him. She had not meant to blurt it out in that exact moment, but something was happening in her brain that made it harder to contain thoughts.
Jiro tilted his head to one side like a bird eyeing a scrap of food it is not sure it can carry, then reached down to grab his jacket from under the bar. Regret was everywhere, instantly. Five hundred was too much; she should have aimed lower. After all, a couple of hundred was better than nothing at all.
But Jiro did not put the topcoat on. Instead, he neatly laid it across his lap and removed an envelope from the inside pocket. He opened it, licked his thumb and index finger, and deftly separated a portion of the bills from the stack inside, then handed them to her. With a wrench that was quite physical, Zoe watched him slide the still-plump envelope back into his coat pocket. So she had asked for too little. Of course.
“And now that is dealt with,” said Jiro. “You prefer hot or cold?”
One benefit of the fact Zoe had been drinking all night and day was that it had left her with a whining nausea that mandated she sip her sake, a drink she didn’t particularly enjoy anyway, slowly with gulps of water in between. The coke comedown had left her feeling untalkative, so she was also able to do something she did not often do, which was listen to another person speak without focusing solely on what she was going to say next. Jiro had been telling her about his job in something called private equity while Zoe nodded vigorously along when he stopped himself short.
“Let’s get some food too, shall we? I see you are not a big drinker. The bar food here is very good.”
Zoe tried to assure him that she wasn’t hungry, but he waved her objections away and ordered generously. He ushered one of the cloudy bowls of miso soup that quickly appeared toward her. To her surprise the earthy, sweet liquid slipped easily down her throat, fanning her appetite. A dish of pan-seared dumplings doused in scallion oil arrived, and Jiro watched with evident pleasure as Zoe plucked up one after the other, finishing all six, then dug into a bowl of rice. Next came plump white pork buns. Jiro split one open, freeing a tiny cloud of steam. Zoe bowed her face over the sweet escaping air and smiled.
He ordered more, and while she ate, he talked. What she heard from Jiro was this: the taste of loneliness is a glass of chardonnay and a turkey club sandwich at an airport bar. The shape of loneliness is his son’s single bed, which he uses on the rare nights he’s home, while his son sleeps in the master bedroom beside his wife. The beginning of loneliness was moving from Japan to Brussels when he was nine, then to Toronto at eleven, then on to Missouri, Paraguay, Switzerland … A new home every two years until he was seventeen. It was being given the nickname “Oh Wow”at one of the international schools he attended, an Americanism he’d picked up and used too often, until the other kids began to mimic him. It was returning to Japan for business school to find himself no longer Japanese enough. It was marrying a woman he barely knew before his father died so he could leave this world in peace. It was dutifully making love to his wife until he gave her a child, who in turn replaced him, which made him free and alone once more.
“Is that why you use Daddy Dearest?” asked Zoe. “Because you and your wife don’t … anymore?”
Jiro shook his head with a look of distaste. “I will not do that with anyone but my wife. That would not be appropriate.”
Zoe tried to hide the smile of relief that was floating to the surface of her face.
“So you just use it to … hang out?”
“I like to know what young people do in the cities I visit.”
Zoe raised her eyebrows. “The young men too?”
“No.” He smiled. “I am less interested in what they do.”
Zoe had finished all the food Jiro ordered and now looked at the array of bowls and dishes in front of her with surprise. Jiro followed her gaze.
“Oh wow,” said Jiro. “You did very well.”
“Oh wow!” Zoe laughed.
“Yes.” Jiro dabbed at a streak of soy sauce on the counter in front of her with his napkin. “It’s an appropriate nickname for me. I am often amazed by things.”
“That’s a good thing,” she said. “I am often underwhelmed by things.”
“You’re too young to be underwhelmed.”
“Being underwhelmed is part of being young. My generation has higher expectations than yours.”
Jiro looked at her. “You want to know what the key to a happy life is, Zoe?”
“There’s just one?”
“Just one that matters,” said Jiro. “No expectations. No preferences. If you prefer one outcome over another in life, you will likely be disappointed. I prefer nothing and am always surprised.”
“So, you’re saying that if you were given two options right now, one that I kiss you and the other that I punch you in the face, you’d have no preference?”
“I would try not to, no.”
“But in your heart of hearts you’d prefer the kiss, surely?”
“Perhaps you kiss me and I get a cold sore. Perhaps you punch me and bring me a new perspective on pain. If I have no preference, the outcome shows me what is beneficial or harmful in my life. I don’t impose that value.”