I Called Him Necktie Read Free Page B

remember: He arrived hunched over, as if under a heavy load. I thought he’d aged overnight, with wrinkles on his neck as he nodded to me. So there you are. I nodded back. And more than that: I nodded an invitation. To my own amazement I nodded to him, who had aged, and even nodded again when he came towards me, warily, across the frontier, and offered me a cigarette.
    Ohara Tetsu. He bowed slightly. Hajimemashite.* You don’t smoke? That’s good. Better not to start at all. It’s an addiction. I need it, you see. He sat down beside me,his briefcase between us. The clicking of the lighter, he puffed away. One of those things I can’t stop. Again I nodded. I’ve tried everything. No use. Can’t get away from it. Don’t have the willpower. I’m sure you know about that. A husky voice, he coughed quietly. In the firm, he continued, everyone smokes. It’s the stress, it never stops. In the firm. He bent down, stubbed out the cigarette. We spent the rest of the morning in silence on our bench.
    Now and then someone came by. A mother pushing a stroller. A man limping. A group of truants in crumpled uniforms. The earth was turning, birds were flying. A butterfly landed for a few seconds on the bench across from me. Sitting together we watched as it swooped away. A faint recognition that from now on there was no going back.
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    Kyōko made this, he said, as he unpacked his bento at midday. Karaage* with potato salad. My wife. She’s a wonderful cook. Want some? No? He smiled in embarrassment. You know, she gets up every morning at six o’clock to prepare my bento. For thirty-three years. Every morning at six. And the best thing about it: It tastes wonderful! He rubbed his belly. Almost too good, he hesitated, for someone like me. But I’m lucky, aren’t I? And with that he started eating.
    In my inner eye I saw Kyōko, his wife, in her nightgown standing in the kitchen. Sizzling oil. A fleck of marinade on her sleeve. She chops and stirs. Peels. Cuts. Salts. The whole house is filled with the sound of chopping and stirring. Of peeling. Cutting. Salting. He wakes up. Still half asleep he thinks: I’m lucky. He thinks it with a sadness almostunbearable in its infinity: I have damned good luck. He gets up. Goes into the bathroom. Bends over the sink and turns on the cold, very cold, water. Puts his face in it, his hair, his neck. Turns the tap further. Comes up. Turns it off. Stays under. Hears the glugging in the drain. Turns it on. Off. On. Off. Watches how the water separates into drops, the drops into dribbles. A smear of toothpaste on the edge of the sink. White on white. He pushes his finger in and – Kyōko doesn’t know. A faint burp. He spoke as if to himself: Kyōko doesn’t know that I come here. I haven’t told her. Stretched syllables: I ha-ven’t to-ld her that I lo-st my jo-b.
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    The pause afterwards. I had become a confidant. As soon as it was uttered, his secret made us allies. It weighed on my feet, and it was impossible now to get up and go. He had confided in me, me alone. I regarded my shoes, which pinched. Shapeless and worn out. He stretched his heels out half a meter in front of him. Black leather, polished smooth. Father’s shoes, it went through my head. I wonder whether he too sometimes has a longing to confide in someone. With some bitterness I noticed: I knew less about him than about the person whose name I had only discovered barely three hours ago. One more reason to stay sitting beside him and to nod to him over his briefcase and beyond.
    It was pretty strange. He continued speaking. It’s not that I didn’t want to tell Kyōko. No, I wanted to. But then I couldn’t bring myself to. Something held me back. Habit, maybe. Gray smoke escaped from his mouth. The habit of getting up early and washing my face. She puts on my tie. As I leave I call out: Have a good day. She calls out:You too. She waves goodbye. At the first bend in the path I turn back towards her. Her figure in front of