Love Connection: Romance in the Land of the Rising Sun

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Published by

Literary Vagabond Books

Los Angeles • Osaka

literaryvagabond.com

Love Connection: Romance in

the Land of the Rising Sun

Copyright © 2022 by John Rachel

ISBN #9781005417314

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system currently available or developed in the future, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Cover Art by Tanya Murakami

Chapter 1: Kumiko Satsuki — April

Chapter 2: Takashi Hashimoto — April

Chapter 3: Kumiko — May

Chapter 4: Takashi — May

Chapter 5: Kumiko — June

Chapter 6: Takashi — June

Chapter 7: Kumiko — July

Chapter 8: Takashi — July

Chapter 9: Kumiko — August

Chapter 10: Takashi — August

Chapter 11: Kumiko — September

Chapter 12: Takashi — September

Chapter 13: Kumiko — October

Chapter 14: Takashi — October

Chapter 15: Kumiko — November

Chapter 16: Takashi — November

Chapter 17: Kumiko — December

Chapter 18: Takashi — December

Chapter 19: Kumiko and Takashi — December

Chapter 20: Kumiko and Takashi — January

Epilogue: Kumiko and Takashi, et al

Author’s Personal Closing Comment

More Books by John Rachel

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Legal Notices and Disclaimers

Many mornings Kumiko's husband would let her sleep in, then just before heading off for work, leave a note on the table for her, propped against a vase or their lacquer salt and pepper shakers. She could still vividly remember his boyish smile and the soft gleam in his eye.

Today Kumiko was standing at his graveside. She reached into her leather handbag. There wrapped in a floral-print fabric was the most precious memento of any from her marriage. As she stared at a handwritten note mounted in a frame, silky tears pooled in her eyes — not quite enough to streak down her cheeks, but still blurring everything. She knew word-for-word what it said, and in her mind’s eye could still see her husband’s graceful script. It was the last note he ever gave her, one he wrote late one evening on his death bed, a month before he passed away.

I can only guess how jealous the other

blossoms in the garden must be when the

most lovely flower in the world wanders

into their midst to water them and

give them loving encouragement.

You are that precious bloom.

She looked up, gazing at a shape in the distance only she could see, then closed her eyes.

She wiped her tears as if that would make it easier to speak. Words caught in her throat as she gulped just enough air to begin her halting, nearly silent soliloquy.

It’s been so long. Almost 13 years now, my precious Kenjirō-san. Why does it seem so distant and at the same time so near? You were always so strong in your love. I guess that strength is still with me. And it’s in our beautiful but stubborn daughter for sure. You would be so proud of her. She’s a woman now … but still a girl in many ways. Still the girl you read stories to and let sleep in your arms before carrying her slumbering little body to her room at night. She so loved you, Kenjirō-san. As I still do. I must go now. I hope you have found the peace that eluded you for so many years. You were much too good for this world, my sweet man, my beautiful friend.

Kumiko reached down to make a final adjustment to the fresh cut flowers she had placed in the metal graveside urns. They were from her own garden.

Then she drove back into the city.

She had promised to have lunch with her best friend, Michiko.

†

They sat outside under an umbrella at a hefty picnic table made of thick planks of cedar. The park was practically empty. Only an old man with a dog sat with his back to them on a bench some distance away. He was preoccupied with a small brook cutting through the park, a gentle stream that teemed with tiny fish and polliwogs. The dog looked drowsy and bored.

The spring breeze felt like the warm breath of a child on Kumiko’s face. It played delicately with her hair like tiny fingers, and made the trees whisper a breathless song.

Michiko Shiori, her friend since elementary school, sat across from her smiling, covering her mouth as she self-consciously chewed the last piece of pickled radish from her bento box. Now it was time for dessert! She reached behind her, and when she turned back around, opened the box containing the final mouthwatering course of their meal. She set it between them, both of them looking forward to the feast’s final graces. But as Michiko leaned forward, she paused and looked directly into Kumiko’s somber eyes.

I know what you’re thinking.

You always do.

You should never feel this sad.

I’m fine.

On the outside. But in here? Michiko pointed at her heart. My dear sweet friend, do you know how lucky you were? The rest of us will never feel that, what you had … ever.

I can’t believe it’s been 13 years. I just can’t let go. I expect him to step out from behind that rhododendron bush there and come over here to sit next to me. I often think I see him. Then it turns out to be someone else.

Of course … we all dream what we can’t have.

Hanami had become an important garnish and temporal anchor for their friendship. They lived some distance apart, Kumiko in Sakai, a distant suburb of Osaka, and Michiko about three hours away by train in Maizuru, a coastal town on the Sea of Japan. But they had made it an annual tradition now to meet halfway by getting together during the cherry blossom festival in Kyoto. For today’s pleasant little picnic they each contributed their specialties. Kumiko made rice balls, fried chicken, seaweed and cucumber salad, stir-fried peppery cabbage and sprouts. Michiko had a special affection for confections and a natural talent for delicious, if not very healthy, pastries. She had spent the previous afternoon preparing pudding-filled fritters and almond butter cookies generously christened with a rainbow of sugary sparkles. Michiko called it mental health food.

It was perfect . . . well, almost perfect.

Suddenly, they heard a lot of voices. Young voices. Boy voices. Laughing. Shouting.

A baseball team, or the majority contingent of one, all wearing uniforms with a tiger opposite the breast pocket, made their way through the park. There was lots of horseplay as they appeared to be engaged in some mutant version of monkey-in-the-middle. Several monkeys were the willing brunt of pretend humiliation, gladly accepting the challenge of trying to intercept the ball that flew over their heads. A few times the game degenerated into rugby, as whoever was unfortunate enough to have the ball got tackled and bodies piled on.

The loosely-joined mob of pre-adults finally made their way out of the other end of the grassy picnic area, heading directly for a convenience store which sat across the wide avenue servicing the north entrance of the park. A few boys jaywalked, displaying their ineptitude at the lowest ranking of the scofflaw crimes. In the middle of the street, they stopped, changed direction, then changed direction again, unable to decide whether to make a break for the opposite side or retreat.

Several cars screeched to a stop, then expressed their impatience by honking in protest, prompting the jaywalkers to burst out in giddy embarrassed laughter and awkward scrambling for the curb.

Finally, all of them made it across. Half of them crowded into the Lawson’s convenience store, grabbing fast food on the fly, while the other half stood outside. Milling around on the sidewalk, they posed and strutted, looking self-consciously casual, quite proud of their uniforms.

Neither Kumiko or Michiko were especially annoyed by the interruption. How could they be? The boys were generally well-behaved, well within courteous limits. Boys will be boys. But Japanese boys were exponentially milder-mannered than most, or so it seemed.

At the same time, their sudden appearance and disjointed departure, though spanning less than five minutes, had interrupted the flow of their interaction, and their shared sense of privacy, albeit in a public park.

Michiko reached for the loose thread of their suspended conversation.

Let’s promise one another something.

What’s that, Michiko-san.

Let’s get together more often. Distance should not be an excuse. We don’t really live that far apart.

"Now that is a great idea! You know, I can’t remember in over forty years of friendship ever having a fight with you. Isn’t that amazing!"

Well … we almost had a fight that one time … you’ll remember if you stop and think about it … maybe.

Aah! I think I know when. I wasn’t mad at you. Not at all.

Well, I was upset with you!

Wait. You don’t seriously mean—

Yes, I mean! I had been waiting for weeks to talk to him. And there you were. Chatting away like you’re old friends. He never even looked at me! I felt like a house fly that happened on the locker you were standing next to.

In the hall? That … what was his name? … Shoji? Shuji?

He was a very cute boy. But did you know? … about? … let’s just say, it turned out there wasn’t much of a future with him anyway.

Seiji? Seiichi?

You’re close. It was Shoichi. And what can I say? … how do they convey it these days? It turned out my dream boy was gay.

Kumiko broke out in hysterical laughter, then just shook her head. Michiko was always so much fun to be with.

Dream boy. It’s amazing, Michiko-san! That was thirty years ago. And you actually remember? Besides, how do you know these things? You’re truly incredible.

I have my ways, my dear old friend. I still have a few surprises in this decaying body.

The old man and his dog were gone now. Kumiko and Michiko packed up their picnic, stood up, stretched.

It took fifteen minutes, at a casual, unhurried pace, to reach the train station.

Crowded! Even for hanami.

I hope I can get a seat. My legs are not as sturdy as they used to be.

Be well, Michiko-san.

Stay healthy, my dearest and oldest friend.

They parted, both filled with good feelings and best intentions, their trains heading in opposite directions. They definitely should do this more often.

That evening, one of Kumiko’s favorite American movies was on TV … Forrest Gump.

She loved the line from the movie: My mom always said life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get.

If that wasn’t the truth!

Indeed …

What a surreal box of chocolates the next year would turn out to be for her!

†

Kumiko loved working in her garden. She divided her time as needed between the flowers in the front area — a splendid panoply on both sides of the slate walkway which led to her front door — and the nice assortment of vegetables growing on the sun-facing rear side of her house. This time of year she could give more attention to the flowers. The Momotaro tomatoes, the cucumbers, spring onions, shishito (Japanese bell peppers), aubergines, napa cabbage, daikon (radishes), lemondrop melons, zucchini squash, okra, mitsuba (Japanese parsley), both red and green shiso, and kabu (Japanese turnips) were beginning to show sprouts. She already had in place the climbing lattices — an invitation to the tendrils of the emerging shoots — as well as the protective nets which would discourage the crows and other pillagers from raiding her produce. Now it just would take time. All she really had to do for the next few weeks was water them, if rain was in short supply, and wait until the next phase of planting — potatoes, then red and black soy beans — would demand her attention.

In terms of the blossoms in the front area, everything had come into bloom early this year. Was it global warming? The regular choreography, entrances and exits of blooms in stages such that the garden looked like an ever-evolving carousel of swirling rainbows and radiant butterflies, seemed condensed. All of the flowers still obeyed some silent urgent command to make their debut. But this year, it definitely unfolded more quickly, as if racing to meet a new compelling deadline. This year’s garden again was an explosion of color and verdant splendor, which she could only hope would survive the coming furnace of summer.

Okay, ‘furnace of summer’ was a bit of an exaggeration. Here in Sakai with the waters of Osaka Bay lapping up on the western seaboard of town, it never got much above 30º C [85º Fahrenheit]. But that was still hot for anyone growing up in a putatively temperate climate. If she wanted to live in a sauna, she’d move to Okinawa!

Kumiko pinched and removed some flowers that were past their prime, pulled a few weeds which were just starting to sprout, then stood back to get an overview. The front garden looked great! Not much more to do here today.

She turned to go around the house, back to the vegetable beds. She could probably do a little more thorough job weeding back there. Weeds grew so fast, it was much easier to catch wild growth early than late.

As she rounded the corner, that’s when she spotted it.

Oh, no! Again!

A mole. The telltale signs of a new, young, hyperactive mole stared back tauntingly, the sinewy humping of the ground, freshly overturned earth, gaping holes. The excavation mostly was underneath the hedge that bordered the inside of the wall of her small compound, which is probably why she hadn’t spotted it earlier.

Just last week, using a metal canister-style trap, she had captured and disposed of the previous intruder. She hated killing anything but moles were not open to a negotiated truce. Rampage is all they knew. They did what they did, heedless of any moral consideration or common courtesy. And what they did, if left unchecked, was tear up everything in sight in order to build a complex of tunnels, caves, lounges, recreation rooms, and food chambers. A single mole could turn an entire yard into an ugly, chaotic muddle of twisting channels, holes, entrances and exits, dirt piles and uprooted flora — a semblance of the battlefields of World War I trench warfare — in just a matter of days.

Time for drastic action!

Kumiko double-timed it to the garden tool shed at the rear of her property, put on rubber gardening gloves, grabbed two special cylindrical traps, then double-timed it back to what looked like the opening to the foyer of the mole catacombs. She strategically placed the two traps inline, inside a tunnel which was close to the surface, then covered them with dirt. They were facing in opposite directions, positioned to catch the pesky little rodent whichever way he came from, either coming or going. Moles were so ugly and pointless. She was doing him a favor. It was a mercy killing. Who’d want to live under there anyway, mixing it up with beetles and worms, shut off from light, fresh air, green tea, bowls of steaming rice, and a hot bath. Better off dead.

She finished patting down the earth over the traps, then just as she stood up, she heard the front gate open.

Mom?

†

Ruka was 25, unusually tall, poetically graceful, beautiful, intelligent, focused, exuding confidence and determination — but always frowning. Nothing ever seemed to please her. Especially recently.

She hadn’t always been like this. Quite to the contrary. As a child, she lit up every room she walked into, always had those around her laughing, or at least smiling with delight, at her antics. She was a born entertainer. Even adults who were stiffened by the starch of their miserable lives, for whom breaking the stony discipline of austere and judgmental intolerance was usually off the table, melted in the magical luminescence and energetic charm of the pre-pubescent Ruka.

Even with the loss of her father, with whom she had always been very close, after several months of mournful quietude, her pre-disposed buoyancy returned. In what should have been the troubled, brooding, often rebellious years of puberty and adolescence, Ruka seemed unshakably affable and optimistic. She never got into the typical squabbles that teens often get into, never participated in the rivalries and melodrama that monopolized and consumed others in her social circles. She was widely popular in school, seemed to have figured out the grueling mysteries of life that so preoccupied others her age, freeing her up to work hard at her studies and excel in all aspects of school and family life.

Then it all changed.

University life tipped everything upside-down.

Kumiko never figured out what happened — if it was one event or a series of events. A person, a friend, a stranger, a professor? An accident or deliberate act? Ruka refused to talk about it. But she wore it like a thick, unctuous shroud.

Something certainly had happened. Maybe it was internal. Kumiko wondered at times if the death of her father finally paid a late call and Ruka by some extremely delayed action finally was hit with the full force of its tragedy and finality.

This, like countless other stabs in the dark — wild, uneducated guesses — was just theory, speculation, conjecture.

Kumiko simply had no idea. With no clues, anything was possible. The mystery remained to this day.

One thing was indisputable: the change was as real as it was sweeping and rather sudden.

The first signs were a visit six months into her first year at Kyoto Sangyo University. For the first time in her life, Ruka was withdrawn, introspective, sullen. It was like her daughter was inhabited by some strange and antithetical ghost.

Despite being such a glaring contrast to the Ruka of nineteen years and counting, Kumiko didn’t think much of it at the time. It was such an anomaly, she assumed Ruka was still adjusting to being away from home, to living independently at school, making new friends, learning the rules of an entirely new setting.

By the end of Ruka’s freshman year, however, it was evident that this was not a passing phase. A transformation was rapidly advancing and it was one-directional.

So here she was. Kumiko’s lovely, energetic, intense, enigmatic daughter, no less a vessel for her maternal devotion, but a very different human being than she had come to know and understand growing up.

It had been six years already, but the memories of her joyful, dancing, hyperactive, playful little girl, without a worry in the world, the delight of all, were imprinted so deeply, and the metamorphosis so marked, she was still having difficulty both keeping up and trying to make sense of it.

Ruka! I’m so glad you’re here. I tried to call you earlier this week.

Things have been crazy with this new job. I hate it. And then … well, this guy I started seeing is turning out to be a real creep. The problem at work is about another real creep. What’s with guys? I wish I were a lesbian. I’m tired of it.

Kumiko was shocked and she wasn’t. A lesbian? Is that how kids talked now?

There are no creepy lesbians?

Mom. I have to hand it to you. You come up with some good ones. Actually, I have no way of knowing. All I know is every guy I run into these days is a creep. Do I have a sign on my back that says, ‘Creeps welcome. Please introduce yourself!’? Or maybe I’m a creep magnet and don’t need a sign.

Do you want some tea?

I’ll take some soda. Do you have any CC Lemon?

Of course she did. Kumiko always had CC Lemon on hand. She knew it was Ruka’s favorite.

Let’s look. I might have some hidden away somewhere.

They went inside, Kumiko in the lead. Just before she slipped through the front door, Ruka turned and gave the front yard area a once over.

Garden looks great, mom. How are the moles?

She had to remind her? What disgusting creatures they are! Talk about creeps!

Is there a sign out front that says, ‘Moles welcome! Come on in!’?

Too bad they’re not edible.

I’m sure someone’s tried. They eat live monkey brains in China.

Ruka settled at the table, pulled out her Samsung smart phone.

When Kumiko came to the table with a juice glass and the bottle of CC Lemon, Ruka turned away in a not very subtle gesture meant to keep her mom from seeing what she was texting. She finished and put the phone in her purse.

Ruka slipped into quiet mode. Kumiko tried to get her to talk.

How’s your new job? I mean, minus the creep.

Ruka shrugged.

How about your bosses? Are they nice to you?

Ruka sipped on her CC Lemon with her eyes closed.

Any new friends in your apartment building? That’s a great neighborhood for you. It has a lot of young people your age.

Ruka remained mute.

You know, a lot of men are not creeps. For over thirty years, your father—

"Yes, you’ve told me a thousand times about how dad treated you, mom!"

Don’t be disrespectful. As you get older, less happens in life. Those memories become more and more precious. Especially when, as seems to be happening more and more with young people these days, everyone around you is falling apart.

You’ve got everything! Look around you. You have this house. You have friends. Do you have to work? Yes, dad is gone. I understand. But maybe you should start appreciating what you have. I have nothing!

When you’ve been to the top of the mountain, you don’t want to come down. Then the mountain disappears. And it all feels like a distant dream.

Suddenly, Ruka started to cry. Kumiko got a box of tissues from the counter and sat down next to her. She put her arm around her daughter, who typically seemed as tough as nails, but in this moment appeared completely vulnerable, joyless, defeated.

Ruka was facing forward, both hands cupped around the tumbler of soda which sat on the table, head down as she quietly sobbed into her own chest.

Suddenly she turned and put her arms around Kumiko and really started to cry.

It must have been building a long time. They stayed like that for several minutes, arms around each other, daughter releasing a torrent of pent up grief, mother who had become with many years of honed discipline in the art of forbearance, able to keep her own grief rigidly under control.

Ruka’s arms withdrew slowly from Kumiko’s shoulders, her weeping gradually replaced with sporadic sniffles and more regular breathing. She reached for more tissues to dry her eyes and tear-chafed cheeks.

I’m sorry. You must think I’m a big baby.

I think you’re my beautiful Ruka-san, light of my life, and you’re having a rough time.

Ruka straightened up and as abruptly as she had broken down and been immersed in tears, composed herself, sat stiffly erect, tried to appear totally unruffled and in good repair. As if nothing at all had just happened. She finished her soda, then stood up.

I’ll be fine. I better go.

Takashi always felt self-conscious, even if no one else was around, when he visited the gravesite of his wife, Ayumi-san — uncomfortable, unsteady, disoriented, confused. What was he doing here? Why was he standing here … so helpless? Feeling ashamed.

Not that her death was his fault.

Yet …

It was as if he had broken some cryptic, ancient rule, some unwritten but immutable law which had governed the affairs of humans since time immemorial. It hung over him like an ominous, black cloud of guilt.

Had he done anything to cause this tragedy?

What could he have done to prevent it?

He had no answer to either. There were no answers. Yet he was drowning in remorse, suffocating in blame, paralyzed, mortified, feeling like both the author and the victim of the somber, irreversible reality he confronted ever time he stopped here just to … why did he come? Why was he here? He could do nothing. There was no way to fix this.

Yet here he was and as always … he was haunted by one indisputable fact.

He was alive and she was dead. What could he possibly do or say? There was no trading places.

What was that lame expression?

It is what it is.

What vacuous drivel.

The human mind fails more often than it succeeds.

He just stood and stared, eyes unfocused, his breathing tremulous and shallow.

After an eternity — actually occupying but a few moments — words … finally came.

Not the right words.

Just words.

I always said I’d be there for you, my precious Ayumi-san. I tried. And I was there. But I wasn’t. Not always. Not entirely. Here I am now. But it’s too late. How could I have known? How could I have let even a single precious moment slip away when you were alive? How could I have known you’d be taken so suddenly … so … finally? What’s the truth? I have no excuse. Even a blind man can find his way home. But I’m lost. You were always there for me. Too often I kept you waiting. Now it’s too late. I will always love you a thousand times more than I ever let you know.

The graveside urns were full of fresh cut flowers. The girls — his daughters — must have just been there, no more than a couple days ago. Or maybe his wife’s sister. There were many who still loved and kept alive the memory of Ayumi-san.

Rightly so. There was no one else more deserving. Everyone knew that.

As now he did. Too little too late.

Takashi bent forward and laid a single 菊 [kiku] — a single chrysanthemum — in front of the stone monument, underneath which lay her ashes.

Before he turned to go, a bird alighted on the very tip of the monument.

It instantly took Takashi’s breath away. It was so beautiful!

And familiar. This was astonishing!

Though this was only the second time in his entire life he had seen one, he knew exactly what kind of bird it was. Granted, he wasn’t much of a bird expert. But many years ago, he had looked it up in an ornithology reference book. A bird just like this one, just as delicate and mesmerizing had appeared at his wedding party.

With Ayumi-san at his side, outside in a garden, surrounded by family and friends, both of them so young and full of dreams, just such a colorful creature had landed right in front of them on the table. It was so close, either of them could have reached over and touched it. A brave and sociable little 八色鳥 [fairy pitta] had stopped to salute their new marriage. Or maybe it was just looking for crumbs. Whatever its agenda, Ayumi-san was smiling that dazzling smile of hers. The one that could light up an entire cluster of galaxies. Then as suddenly as it arrived, off the manic visitor went to wherever birds go next. Is there a plan?

That was 32 years ago.

Now here again, at the other end of life’s long but always too brief span, what prompted this? Was it a salute? A sign? Or maybe it was just looking for those elusive crumbs.

Takashi tried not to move. He didn’t want to startle his unexpected visitor.

But again as quickly as it had arrived, the fairy pitta flitted away and was gone. Just a fleeting reminder of how the vibrant water colors of life could run and streak into a rainbow of tears.

He suddenly was overwhelmed by the urgency to get away and be gone from this tragic, fateful place. He abruptly turned to leave.

Takashi was at 62 still a strong man, healthy, vibrant. Even so, as he walked back to his rental car, he felt himself nearly crushed by the weight of an intractable paradox. The facts were clear. He had many people in his life. Though estranged for now, he had two daughters. He had numerous personal friends, especially in Okinawa, where he currently lived. He even had a girl friend — Chiemi — over twenty-five years younger than him, a real beauty despite being very temperamental and highly unpredictable. He had through his anti-war and anti-military activism there, literally hundreds of people who knew him, admired him, flocked to his side at public appearances and rallies. He counted among his close acquaintances names of some notoriety, prominent community leaders and political activists who he could call convivial co-conspirators. Takashi knew his share of people in high places, both in the local Okinawa government and media, including many local celebrities. This all added up to literally hundreds, approaching a thousand people within his current active social circles.

Yet there was one grim, unmistakable fact, which eclipsed all of this.

In this moment, he felt like the loneliest man in the world.

†

Dishes were scattered across the table. Takashi and his dearest friend for many years, Hoshino Yamadachi, a former colleague from back in the days — nine years ago they had worked together at Fujiyama Mercantile in Tokyo, then later in Osaka — were sitting across from one another at Robata Izakaya Jomon in Roppongi. This was known as one of Tokyo’s undiscovered treasures. Considering how crowded it was, it wasn’t a very well-kept secret. Fortunately, it was mostly Japanese. Maybe one tourist couple over at a corner table.

There was, of course, every kind of grilled meat imaginable. But as if this orgy of animal flesh weren’t enough, they had ordered octopus and tuna sashimi, sengyo no carpaccio (fish sashimi with Genovese herbs and spices), ryoushi no bo-gyoza (shrimp and pork rolled dumplings), izumi-dori teriyaki chicken (direct from Kagoshima), and as a token nod to food without eyes, nama-wakame no choregi (Korean-style wakame seaweed), shime-ringi de juu (roasted shimeji and cringi mushrooms in butter), endou-mame no peanut itame (Taiwanese stir-fried sugar snap peas and peanuts), and nappa syutai no salad (green salad with leak and toasted sesame seeds).

Hoshino, originally from Tokyo as was Takashi, was now an independent entrepreneur in Uganda. Using his knowledge and extensive contacts from Fujiyama Mercantile, still one of the most successful trading companies in Japan, he had quickly established a formidable import business based in Uganda’s capital, Kampala, though his goods were now increasingly being distributed as well in the other countries of the East African Federation: Kenya, Rwanda, Tanzania, South Sudan, and Burundi.

Hoshino was back in Tokyo for one of the many trips he made to find new suppliers and make the necessary arrangements to engineer an effective supply chain over three continents, not always an easy task considering export restraints on doing business with autocratic countries like Uganda, and the import taxes and other obstacles on the receiving end, imposed by African governments, who seemed only to excel at shooting themselves in the foot when it came to modernizing their economies.

My good friend, Takashi-san. Just like old times, eh?

What was that place in Nakatsu district we used to go to in Osaka? Wasn’t it called Bochi Bochi?

That was it. Delicious seared bonito. Those fried skewers — their kushiage — of meat, vegetables, cheese and mochi. All you can drink for three hours. We crawled out of there a few times, so memory serves.

This place is amazing too, eh? Reaching for more dumplings. These are truly unbelievable.

The chef here should be given the Nobel Prize for cooking.

So Hoshi-san … I’m trying to remember. Why did we start coming here? I forget.

We discovered it separately, but ended up here together. Synchronized serendipity!

Still the master of riddles, my enigmatic friend.

Does ‘Kumi’ ring a bell. She was a very spicy young college student you were hitting on. You were wining and dining her like she was an Olympic gymnastics dance gold medalist. You apparently thought no one you knew would possibly come to a place like this.

Uh … yes. I’ll admit this is sounding somewhat familiar.

So in you walked, with Kumi on your arm like a trick dog in heat, your first time here. Lo and behold, who do you see standing there before the cashier paying his dinner tab? Me! My first time here as well.

Great minds think alike.

Hungry stomachs growl the same tune.

Yes, I vaguely remember Kumi. Half my age. Lasted maybe two weeks, if I recall.

A personal record.

She tried calling me at home. Stupid young girls are a mile of bad road.

You should know.

Come on, my friend. I wasn’t that bad.

"You were that bad. God knows why Ayumi-san put up with it."

Takashi froze. Hearing her name. Recalling today graveside.

Hoshino immediately realized he’d said the wrong thing.

Listen … don’t … don’t—

Forget about it. Hey, how about those Tohoku Golden Eagles?

Takashi-san, you know nothing about baseball and couldn’t care less. If you’re going to change the subject, tell me about what’s happening in Okinawa. What’s with the Ospreys? And moving the base? Are you getting anywhere?

It’s all bad news, all bad news. Are you sure you want to know?

Give me the thumbnails. Keep it upbeat. I still have to digest this food.

"Well, you’re asking the impossible. There’s nothing upbeat about any of it. Another 15-year-old school girl was raped by an American soldier last month. That’s two this year already. The Americans say they’ll move to another base, over to a coastal area called Nago. But they want to keep all of the facilities at Ginowan intact. They’ll still keep the bulk of their personnel and equipment right where it is, and expand to the new location. What a scam! We’ve had demonstrations every weekend. The new Governor of Okinawa is screaming bloody murder. He got elected because of his vociferous opposition to the bases. But Tokyo just kneels to the Empire. They’re lapdogs to the U.S. political establishment, tools of the U.S. military, and ravenous pigs feeding at the trough of U.S. handouts. It’s disgusting. These men have no pride, no sense of responsibility, no loyalty to their own country. Half of the politicos in Tokyo should be tried for treason."

Doesn’t sound like anything has changed.

It’s changed alright. It’s gotten worse! We’ve got 90% of the Okinawans demanding they close the bases, and we can’t get anything done. So much for democracy. Get this. Yes, the new base is away from the Ginowan residential area. But right in the center of the new sprawling military complex is the Okinawa College of Technology. It should be easy pickings to find some lovely young girls to molest.

They had both finished eating. Hoshino reached for the bottle and two sake cups which had just arrived at their table on a black lacquer tray. He poured. Takashi watched as he wiped his hands with a wet napkin.

Hoshino raised his cup in a silent toast. And took their conversation in a curious new direction.

Are you happy, Takashi-san? I mean personally.

That’s a rather epic question. To be honest with you … I don’t think about it.

Everyone thinks about it, even when they don’t.

Does making sense ever make sense to you?

The question’s not as difficult as you’re making it. Things are generally good … or they’re not. You can even tell if a dog is happy.

I have no tail to wag, if that’s where this is going. Let’s just say, I’m doing what I want to do. But …

But?

But I’m not getting done what I want to get done. In fact, I’m accomplishing nothing.

That doesn’t sound very satisfying.

It’s not. In fact …

In fact?

In fact, lately I’ve been feeling restless. Like I’m anticipating a change.

When you’re serious about it, let me know. I might have something for you.

Business?

Business.

Things are going well?

Too well. But let’s not talk about it now. When you’re ready, then we can talk.

Hoshino poured one last refill of tonight’s inebriant of choice, Izumo Fuji Junmai, a brilliantly dry sake served chilled.

To be honest, Hoshino-san, my enigmatic but successful friend, I may be in touch sooner than later. 乾杯！— kanpai!

†

"I see no reason at all to worry about anything, Hashimoto-san. You are