Men Without Women
He called his bar Kino. He couldn’t come up with a better name. The first week he was open, he didn’t have a single customer. He had anticipated this, though, and wasn’t perturbed. After all, he hadn’t told anyone he knew that he was opening a bar. He hadn’t advertised the place, or even put out an eye-catching sign. He simply waited patiently for curious people to stumble across this little backstreet bar. He still had some of his severance pay, and his wife hadn’t asked for any financial support. She was already living with his former colleague, and they no longer needed the condo in Kasai, so they decided to sell it. After paying back what they owed on the mortgage, they split the remaining sum. Kino lived on the second floor of his aunt’s house, and it looked as though, for the time being, he’d be able to get by.
As he waited for his first customer, Kino enjoyed listening to whatever music he liked and reading books he’d been wanting to read. Like dry ground welcoming the rain, he let the solitude, silence, and loneliness soak in. He listened to a lot of Art Tatum solo piano pieces. Somehow they seemed to fit his mood.
He wasn’t sure why, but he felt no anger or bitterness toward his wife, or the colleague she was sleeping with. The betrayal had been a shock, for sure, but, as time passed, he began to feel as if it couldn’t have been helped, as if this had been his fate all along. In his life, after all, he had achieved nothing, had been totally unproductive. He couldn’t make anyone else happy, and, of course, couldn’t make himself happy. Happiness? He wasn’t even sure what that meant. He didn’t have a clear sense, either, of emotions like pain or anger, disappointment or resignation, and how they were supposed to feel. The most he could do was create a place where his heart—devoid now of any depth or weight—could be tethered, to keep it from wandering aimlessly. This little bar, Kino, tucked into a backstreet, became that place. And it became, too—not by design, exactly—a strangely comfortable space.
It wasn’t a person who first discovered what a comfortable place Kino was but a stray cat. A young gray female with a long, lovely tail. The cat favored a sunken display case in a corner of the bar and liked to curl up there to sleep. Kino didn’t pay much attention to the cat, figuring it wanted to be left alone. Once a day, he fed it and changed its water, but nothing beyond that. And he constructed a small pet door so that it could go in and out of the bar whenever it liked. The cat, though, preferred entering and exiting the bar along with people, through the front door.
—
The cat may have brought some good luck along with it, for after it appeared so did a scattering of customers. Some of them started to come by regularly—ones who took a liking to this little backstreet bar with its small sign, wonderful old willow tree, its quiet middle-aged owner, vintage records spinning on a turntable, limited menu of two new dishes per day, gray cat sacked out in a corner. And these people sometimes brought other new customers. Still far from thriving, the bar at least earned back the rent. For Kino, that was enough.
The young man with the shaved head started coming to the bar about two months after it opened. And it was another two months before Kino learned his name. My name is Kamita, he said. It’s written with the characters for “god”—kami—and “field”—“god’s field,” the man explained, but isn’t pronounced “Kanda,” as you might expect. It’s pronounced “Kamita.” He wasn’t addressing Kino when he said this, though.
It was raining lightly that day, the kind of rain where you aren’t sure if you really need an umbrella. There were just three customers in the bar, Kamita and two men in dark suits. It was seven thirty. As always, Kamita was at the farthest stool down the counter, sipping a White Label and water and reading. The two men were seated at a table, drinking a bottle of Haut-Médoc. They had brought the bottle with them in a paper bag, and asked Kino if he would mind their drinking it there, for a five-thousand-yen cork fee. It was a first for Kino, but he had no reason to refuse. He opened the bottle and set down two wineglasses and a bowl of mixed nuts. Not much trouble at all. The two men smoked a lot, though, which for Kino, who hated cigarette smoke, made them less welcome. With little else to do, Kino sat on a stool and listened to the Coleman Hawkins LP with the track “Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho.” He found the bass solo by Major Holley amazing.
At first, the two men seemed to be getting along fine, enjoying their wine, but then a difference of opinion arose on some topic or other—what it was, Kino had no idea—and the men grew steadily more worked up, and what had begun as a minor disagreement escalated to a full-blown argument. At some point, one of them stood, tipping the table and sending the full ashtray and one of the wineglasses crashing to the floor. Kino hurried over with a broom, swept up the mess, and put a clean glass and ashtray on the table.
Kamita—though at this time Kino had yet to learn his name—was clearly disgusted by the men’s behavior. His expression didn’t change, but he kept tapping the fingers of his left hand lightly on the counter, like a pianist checking one particular key. I have to get this situation under control, Kino realized, I need to step forward and take care of this. He went over to the men. “I’m sorry,” he said politely, “but I wonder if you’d mind keeping your voices down a bit.”
One of them looked up at him with a cold glint in his eye and rose from the table. Kino hadn’t noticed it until now, but the man was huge. He wasn’t so much tall as barrel-chested, with enormous arms, the sort of build you’d expect of a sumo wrestler. The type of person who had never once, since childhood, lost a fight; the sort of person who was used to bossing others around and couldn’t stand to be told what to do. Kino had met a few people like this back in college. You simply couldn’t reason with them.
The other man was much smaller. Thin and pale, with a shrewd look, the type who was good at egging people on. He slowly got up from his seat, too, and Kino found himself face-to-face with both of them. The men had apparently decided to use this opportunity to call a halt to their quarrel and jointly confront Kino. They were perfectly coordinated, almost as if they had secretly been waiting for this very situation to arise.
“So, you think you can just butt in and interrupt us?” the larger of the two said, his voice hard and low.
The suits they wore seemed expensive, but closer inspection showed them to be tacky and poorly made. Not full-fledged yakuza, though whatever work they were involved in was, clearly, not respectable. The larger man had a crew cut, while his companion’s hair was dyed brown and pulled back in a high ponytail. Kino steeled himself for something bad to happen. Sweat began to pour from his armpits.
“Pardon me,” another voice said.
Kino turned to find that Kamita was standing behind him.
“Don’t blame the staff,” Kamita said, pointing to Kino. “I’m the one who asked him to request that you keep it down. It makes it hard to concentrate, and I can’t read my book.”
Kamita’s voice was calmer, more languid, than usual. But something, unseen, was beginning to stir.
“ ‘Can’t read my book,’ ” the smaller man repeated in low voice, as if making sure that there was nothing ungrammatical about the sentence.
“What, don’t ya got a home?” the larger man asked Kamita.
“I do,” Kamita replied. “I live nearby.”
“Then why don’t ya go home and read there?”
“I like reading here,” Kamita said.
The two men exchanged a look.
“Hand over the book,” the smaller man said. “I’ll read it for you.”
“I like to read by myself, quietly,” Kamita said. “And I’d hate it if you mispronounced any of the words.”
“Aren’t you a piece of work,” the larger man said. “What a funny guy.”
“What’s your name, anyway?” Ponytail asked.
“My name is Kamita,” he said. “It’s written with the characters for ‘god’—kami—and ‘field’: ‘god’s field.’ But it isn’t pronounced ‘Kanda,’ as you might expect. It’s pronounced ‘Kamita.’ ” Thus Kino first
learned his name.
“I’ll remember that,” the large man said.
“Good idea. Memories can be useful,” Kamita said.
“Anyway, how about we step outside?” the smaller man said. “That way, we can say exactly what we want to.”
“Fine with me,” Kamita said. “Anywhere you say. But, before we do that, could you pay your check? You don’t want to cause the bar any trouble.”
“All right,” the smaller one agreed.
Kamita asked Kino to bring over their check, and he laid exact change for his own drink on the counter. Ponytail extracted a ten-thousand-yen bill from his wallet and tossed it onto the table.
“Will that cover it, including the broken glass?”
“That’s plenty,” Kino said.
“What a cheap joint,” the large man said, sneeringly.
“I don’t need any change back,” Ponytail told Kino. “But why don’t ya buy yourself some better wineglasses? This is expensive wine, and glasses like these make it taste like shit.”
“What a cheap joint,” the larger man said again, sneeringly.
“Correct. A cheap bar with cheap customers,” Kamita said. “It doesn’t suit you. There’s got to be somewhere else that does. Not that I know where.”
“Now, aren’t you the wise guy,” the large man said. “You make me laugh.”
“Think it over later on, and have a good, long laugh,” Kamita said.
“No way you’re gonna tell me where I should go,” Ponytail said. He slowly licked his lips, like a snake sizing up its prey.
The large man opened the door and stepped outside, Ponytail following behind. Perhaps sensing the tension in the air, the cat, despite the rain, leaped outside after them.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kino asked Kamita.
“Not to worry,” Kamita said, with a slight smile. “You don’t need to do anything, Mr. Kino. Just stay put. This will be over soon.”
Kamita went outside and shut the door. It was still raining, a little harder than before. Kino sat down on a stool and waited. There was no sign of any new customers. It was oddly still outside, and he couldn’t hear a thing. Kamita’s book lay open on the counter, like a well-trained dog waiting for its master. About ten minutes later, the door opened, and in strode Kamita, alone.
“Would you mind lending me a towel?” he asked.
Kino handed him a fresh towel, and Kamita wiped his head. Then his neck, face, and, finally, both hands. “Thank you. Everything’s okay now,” he said. “Those two won’t be showing their faces here again. They won’t bother you anymore.”
“What in the world happened?”
Kamita just shook his head, as if to say, “Better you don’t know.” He went over to his seat, downed the rest of his whiskey, and picked up where he’d left off in his book.
Later, as he was leaving, he went to pay the check, but Kino reminded him he had already paid. “Ah, right you are,” Kamita said, wryly, then raised the collar of his raincoat, put on his round, brimmed hat, and left.
That evening, after Kamita had gone, Kino went outside and made a circuit of the neighborhood. The alley was deserted and quiet. No signs of a fight, no trace of blood. He couldn’t imagine what had taken place. He went back to the bar to wait for other customers, but no one else came that night. The cat didn’t return, either. He poured himself some White Label, a double, added an equal amount of water and two small ice cubes, and tasted it. Nothing special, about what you’d expect. But that night he needed a shot of alcohol in his system.
One day when Kino was in college, he was walking the backstreets of Shinjuku when he came across a man, a yakuza by the look of him, quarreling with two young company employees. The yakuza was a shabby-looking and middle-aged man and the two company men were well built and also a little drunk, so they underestimated their opponent. The yakuza must have had some boxing skills, for at a certain point he made a fist and, without a word, knocked them down with lightning-quick blows. Once they were down he kicked them hard, over and over, with the soles of his leather shoes. Probably broke a few of their ribs. Kino could still hear the dull crack. Then the man turned and walked away, like nothing had happened. This is the way a professional fights, Kino thought at the time. No superfluous words. Everything mentally choreographed beforehand. Put the other guy on the ground before he has a chance to get ready. And once he’s down, make sure he stays down for good. Then turn and walk away. No way an amateur could stand up to that.
Kino imagined Kamita doing the same, knocking the two men down in the space of a couple of seconds. Come to think of it, Kamita did sort of remind him of a boxer. But Kino had no way of knowing what actually happened on that rainy night. Kamita never explained, and the more Kino thought about it, the deeper the mystery became.
—
About a week after the incident, Kino slept with a female customer. She was the first woman he’d had sex with since he left his wife. She was thirty, or perhaps a little older. Somewhere in that vicinity. He wasn’t sure if she would be classified as beautiful, but she had long, straight hair, a short nose, and something special about her, something that stood out. Her demeanor and way of speaking was slow and langorous, and it was hard to read anything in her expression.
The woman had been to the bar several times before, always in the company of a man of about the same age who wore tortoiseshell-framed glasses and a beatnik-like goatee. He had unruly hair and never wore a tie, so Kino figured he was probably not your typical company employee. The woman always wore a tight-fitting dress that showed off her slender, shapely figure. They sat at the bar, exchanging an occasional hushed word or two as they sipped cocktails or sherry. They never stayed long. Kino imagined they were having a drink before they made love. Or else after. He couldn’t say which, but the way they drank reminded him of sex. Drawn-out, intense sex. The two of them were strangely expressionless, especially the woman, whom Kino had never seen smile.
The woman spoke to him sometimes, always about the music that was playing. The names of the musicians or the title of the track. She liked jazz too, and collected records. “My father used to listen to this music at home a lot,” she told him. “I prefer more contemporary music, but hearing this kind of music brings back a lot of memories.” From her tone, Kino couldn’t tell if the memories were of the music or of her father. But he didn’t venture to ask.
Kino actually tried not to have too much to do with the woman. It was clear that the man wasn’t very pleased when he was friendly to her. One time he and the woman did have a lengthy conversation—exchanging tips on used-record stores in Tokyo and the best way to take care of vinyl—and, after that, the man kept shooting him cold, suspicious looks. Kino was usually careful to keep his distance from any sort of entanglement. Among human emotions, nothing was worse than jealousy and pride, and Kino had had a number of awful experiences because of one or the other. It struck him at times that there was something about him that stirred up the dark side in other people.
That night, though, the woman came to the bar alone. There were no other customers. It had been raining for a long time, and when she opened the door cool night air crept into the bar, carrying with it the scent of rain. She sat at the counter, ordered a brandy, and asked Kino to play some Billie Holiday. “Something really old, if you could.” Kino put a Columbia record on the turntable, one with the track “Georgia on My Mind.” The two of them listened silently. “Could you play the other side, too?” she asked, when it ended, and he did as she requested.
She slowly worked her way through three brandies, listening to a few more records—Erroll Garner’s “Moonglow,” Buddy DeFranco’s “I Can’t Get Started.” At first, Kino thought she was waiting for the man, but by the time he was ready to close, the man still had not shown up. Apparently she wasn’t waiting. She hadn’t glanced at her watch even once. She wore a thin dark blue cardigan over a short-sleeve black dress, and small imitation-pearl earrings. She just sat there, listening to the m
usic, lost in thought, sipping her brandy. The woman didn’t seem to mind not talking. Brandy was a drink that went well with silence—you gently swirled it, appreciated the color, inhaled the fragrance.
“Your friend isn’t coming today?” Kino decided to ask as closing time drew near.
“He isn’t coming. He’s far away,” the woman said. She stood up from the stool and walked over to where the cat lay sleeping. She gently stroked its back with her fingertips. The cat, unperturbed, went on sleeping.
“We’re thinking of not seeing each other anymore,” the woman said. He wasn’t sure if she was addressing him, or the cat.
Either way, Kino didn’t know how to respond, so he said nothing, and continued to straighten up behind the counter. He cleaned the grill, washed the cooking utensils, and stowed them away in drawers.
“I’m not sure how to put it,” the woman said. She stopped petting the cat and went back to the bar, high heels clicking. “Our relationship isn’t exactly…normal.”
“Not exactly normal.” Kino repeated her words without really considering what they meant.
She finished the small amount of brandy left in her glass. “I have something I’d like to show you, Mr. Kino,” she said.
Whatever it was, Kino didn’t want to see it. It wasn’t something that should be seen. Of that he was certain. But he had lost words to say so.
The woman removed her cardigan and placed it on the stool. She reached both hands behind her and unzipped her dress. She turned her back to Kino. Just below her white bra clasp he saw an irregular sprinkling of small marks the color of faded charcoal, like bruises. They reminded him of constellations in the winter sky. A dark row of depleted stars. It may have been the trace of a rash from a contagious disease. Or scars.
The woman said nothing, just displayed her bare back to Kino for a while. The bright white of her new bra and the darkness of the marks made for an ominous contrast. Like someone who cannot even comprehend the meaning of the question he has been asked, Kino just stared wordlessly at her back. Finally, she zipped up and turned to face him. She put on her cardigan and fixed her hair.