Memorial(53)

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Once, when I was a kid, Eiju and I both lazed on the sofa, staring at the wall where there should’ve been a television. We’d sold it a few weeks beforehand. Ma had been inconsolable. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since, not even at dinner.

Staring at the nothing in front of us, I asked Eiju how he’d met my mother. I’d never asked before. Hadn’t even thought to.

He looked at me, wincing.

It started raining and then she was there, he said.



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? ? ?

Things I’ve cooked for my father, who insists on never eating out anywhere besides his own bar: okonomiyaki, yakisoba, oyakodon, katsudon, mabo don, mori soba, kake soba, kitsune udon, nabeyaki udon, bulgogi, soondubu jjigae, doenjang jjigae, ika-age, takoyaki, lamb curry, chicken curry, creamed salt cod, a Dungeness crab soufflé, poached flounder in tomato sauce, steamed black cabbage, Romano beans sautéed in oregano, salmon, salmon carpaccio, shrimp bisque, garlic-baked squid, grilled tuna in a red onion salad, tempura, grilled asparagus braised in garlic butter, carrot and red pepper soup, soy-braised pork, fried rice, huevos rancheros, huevos divorciados, carne asada, migas, simmered radishes, tatsuta-age, spicy tuna on toasted bread, okayu, fried rice, steamed rice.



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Things I’ve cooked for my father that he’s visibly enjoyed:



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The next time Eiju asked about my plans, we’d driven out to Nakazakicho to restock the bar. It was usually something Kunihiko handled. He’d make the trip on the days he had off. But that week, according to Eiju, Kunihiko couldn’t make it, because he had something or another going on, and when I asked Kunihiko about it later, he said, So I’m not going with you guys?

But I didn’t press Eiju on that. We stepped around the tiny little truck he kept behind the bar. I’d never ridden in it, and I asked him why he kept the fucking thing in the first place, and Eiju asked if I hadn’t seen Godzilla.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Calm down, said Eiju. You never know when you’ll need to leave.

That’s beyond idiotic, I said.

It isn’t, said Eiju. Just watch the news.

I can’t even remember the last time I saw you drive.

So you’re saying I can’t.

I’m saying I don’t have insurance. And I’m really not trying to die in a car wreck abroad.

Makes no difference to me how I go, said Eiju.

And besides, he said, fingering the keys, I figured you’d do the honors.

I don’t think that’s a great idea, I said.

Couldn’t be a better one, said Eiju.



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And then we were on the road.

The drive wasn’t far. Eiju told me which turns to take. The morning was sleepy enough that I idled alongside the bikers, and the occasional motorist scootering by, but mostly I just took my time.

The roads felt comfortable. We passed ramen stalls and convenience stores. Drove over the bridge. Idled by chicken stands and cops and some guys fixing telephone lines, and another group of dudes plugging in potholes. They worked in tandem, rocking these uniforms. Calling and responding to each other. Eiju whistled “Little Red Corvette” over and over again.



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When we made it to the market, our distributor was waiting by the garage. He was a stocky guy, with a too-big mustache and his hands on his hips.

Eiju, he said, extending his hand.

And company? he added, pointing at me.

Before I could answer, Eiju said, My son.

He avoided my eyes, looking straight ahead.

Oh, said the vendor. He cocked his head.

And then, without missing a beat, he said, No shit.

Must be the eyes, he laughed.

And that’s why I like you, Hikaru, said Eiju. Everyone else mentions the ears.

But it wasn’t long before they started talking business. Hikaru opened his building’s garage, where our supplies sat in stacks. Eiju’s name shined from a placard near the front. It took something like twenty minutes for me to bring all the boxes back to our truck, and another guy—skinny and scruffy—helped me while Eiju and Hikaru talked. They stepped inside the building, only to come back out with two beers, kicking their feet against the concrete.

The other guy helped me load the crates into the car. He looked a little younger than me.

He told me he was Hikaru’s son. His name was Sora.

You the new Kunihiko? he asked.

Hardly, I said. He’s out sick or something.

And you’re not from here.

I’m not from here.

Weird, said Sora, but he didn’t say anything else.



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We piled everything into Eiju’s truck, grunting all the while. Every now and again, we stole glances at each other. The road mumbled behind us, along with the steady clinking of a nearby trainline, and there wasn’t anything in the morning air, really, or at least no sex I could sense offhand: we were just genuinely staring.

Once we’d finished packing, we sat on the back of the pickup. Sora pulled two cans of beer from his sweater. When he waved one my way, I shook my head.