She takes a deep breath. ‘A man has asked me to marry him.’
What do I care? ‘Oh.’ Tomomi inches open the doors. I bang them shut savagely. Hope I broke the bitch’s nose. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Yes. The hotelier in Nagano I told you about in my last letter.’
A hotelier, huh? Nice catch. Especially with your history.
Why are you telling me this now?
You never bothered telling us about your life before.
You never cared what we thought. Not remotely.
You want me to be happy for you? To say ‘Sure, Mum, great news!’?
I very nearly put us both out of our misery and hang up.
‘Where are you calling from?’ I end up saying.
‘I’m back at the clinic in Miyazaki. The . . . drink, you know. I was poorly for a very long time. That’s why . . . But now, he – the hotelier, his name is Ota by the way – he says after we marry my problems are his problems too, and so . . . I want to get better. So I came back here.’
‘I see. Good. Good luck.’
‘Mrs Ota.’ Ordinary, married, respectable. RESET. A new patron, a new set of bank cards, a new wardrobe. Nice. But answer my question: Why are you telling me this now?
I see.
Mr Ota doesn’t know about us. You never told him. You want to make sure I’ll agree keep your nasty little secrets to myself. Am I right?
‘He’d love to meet you, Eiji.’
How nice of Mr Ota. Why would I want to meet this owner of fat hotels?
Twenty years is a little late to start playing the dutiful mother, Mother.
Fact is, you only ever make me unhappy. You are making me unhappy now.
So fine. Get over your drink problem, get married, live happily ever after and leave me alone. You neurotic, grasping, betraying witch.
The hatch opens – a pen with a white flag waves – Sachiko’s untouchable Doraemon mug appears on the shelf, emitting coffee particles. The hatch closes.
‘Eiji?’
The DJ cuts ‘I Heard It on the Grapevine’ short.
Why I say what I say now, I could never explain, not even to myself.
‘Mum, how about I, uh . . . come and see you in Miyazaki tomorrow?’
When I finish explaining, Sachiko nods. ‘Not the sort of humanitarian mission I could stand in the way of, is it? But my last order as your superior officer in the great army of Nero is this: phone my flatmate before you leave Tokyo.’
‘Did she, uh, say anything?’
‘I can tell her mood by her piano-playing. While you were calling her last week Ai played Chopin and nice stuff. Yesterday evening, I had to get ready for work to those blocky-cocky Erik Satie pieces he wrote to evict his neighbours.’
‘I, uh, sort of messed up, Sachiko.’
‘Ai is no Miss Twenty-four Hour Sunshine. Life is short, Miyake. Call her.’
‘I dunno . . .’
‘No. “Dunno” is not acceptable. Say: “I hear and obey, Miss Sera.”’
‘I really—’
‘Shut up and say it or you’ll never make pizza in this town again.’
‘I hear and obey, Miss Sera.’
‘Tomomi tells me you had a heavy session, man . . .’ Doi appears in the cage with a mini food blender. ‘Know what I do to subdue all those spike-vibes, man?’
I turn away. ‘Doi, this is my last night. Have mercy.’
‘No tricks, man! Just a magic anti-stress cocktail . . .’ Would he put me through this if he knew I had come within one card and a burst artery of having my organs removed this afternoon? Probably, yes. ‘First, strawberries!’ Doi empties a punnetful into the blender. He pulls a black velvet hood over the blender and liquidizes them. He removes hood and lid. ‘Then, tomatoes!’ He drops three overripe tomatoes in. ‘Red food massages away stress waves. Green aggravates. That’s why rabbits and veggies are so uptight . . . What next? Raspberry juice . . . raw tuna . . . azuki beans . . . all the major food groups.’ Doi replaces the lid, the hood, and blends. ‘And last of all, the crowning glory—’ With a flourish he produces a pink budgerigar from a handkerchief. It flaps, blinks and tweets. ‘In you go, little guy!’ He gently lowers it into the bright red liquid mush, and replaces the lid and hood. I know it is a stupid trick, so I refuse to look shocked. He lowers the blender behind the ledge between the cage and my rat-run – where he switches blenders,