the stamps, stick them on, and balance the envelope on the lip of the box. Is this wise? I let the letter go; it falls with a papery slap. When did ‘wise’ ever come into it? Onwards, Plan G. I look up into the eye of a video camera. Outside, the air is heavier and gustier than it was, and swallows are diving low. Another video camera watches the supermarket carpark. Yet another is mounted on the bridge to meditate on passing traffic. I hurry back.
Evening ushers rain in slow motion. I am up in the attic. In the fading light the paper turned white to blue and now is nearly as grey as the ink. I watch the watercourses trickle down the windowpanes. I can almost hear the thirsty city make a frothing noise as its sponges up the rain. In Yakushima they boast about the rain. Uncle Pachinko says it rains thirty-five days per month. Here in Tokyo, when did it last rain? That summer storm, on the day of my stake-out. I was such a holy fool. Morino was a wake-up bomb. What if my father really has no interest in even meeting me? What if he is a Yakuza man too? Sometimes the watercourses follow the one before, other times they split off. Then my father owes it to me to tell me himself. His job – his way of life even – is not the point. In the street outside, the cars of ordinary husbands swish by on their way to ordinary homes. A car cuts its engine outside, and my sense of peace drains away. I peer through the triangular window: Buntaro’s tired old Honda. Here comes my saviour, leaping over the flooding drain with a newspaper held over his head. His bald patch glistens in the rain.
I finish my noodles first so I broach the subject. ‘Buntaro, I need to talk about money.’ Buntaro fishes for tempura batter. ‘What money?’ Exactly. ‘Rent for next month. I dunno how to tell you this, but . . . I don’t have it. Not now the money from Ueno stopped. I know this is a hell of a lot to ask, but could you take it out of my deposit?’ Buntaro frowns – at me or the elusive tempura? I go on. ‘I am really ashamed, after everything you and Mrs Sasaki have done for me. But you should know now, so if, I dunno, if you wanted to give me my marching orders, I mean I would understand, really . . .’
‘Got you!’ Buntaro holds up the prawn between his chopsticks and delicately nibbles its head off. ‘The wife had a better idea, lad. She wants a holiday before she gets too pregnant for the airlines to let her on. You know, we got to thinking how long it’s been since we took a week off together. Guess how long? Never! Literally, never. Before I took over Shooting Star we were always too broke, and since then . . . well, a video shop can never sleep. When I work, she rests; when she works, I rest. Nine years have gone by like that. She phoned around a few hotels in Okinawa this morning – off-season, loads of cheap deals. So, our proposal is this: you look after the shop next week, and that can take care of the rent for October.’
‘All of October?’
‘The hours are piggish – ten a. m. to midnight, seven days. Added up, it comes to a pretty measly rate. But it would give you a breathing space to land another job.’
‘You would really leave me in charge of the shop?’
‘No Al Pacino look-alike has come around asking for you. Hiding here was wise, but you can come out now.’
‘No, I mean – would you trust me with your, uh, business?’
‘My wife does, so I do. And I got a glowing reference from your previous employer.’ Buntaro starts toothpicking. ‘Running the shop is a doddle – I can teach you everything in thirty minutes. And my mom will drop by every evening to pick up the cash and do the accounts. What do you say? Do I tell the wife to book our hotel in paradise?’
‘Of course. Sure. Thank you.’
‘No need to, lad. This is business. Let’s smoke a Marlboro on the step to seal a mutually beneficial package. But don’t tell the wife. I’m supposed to be quitting in time for Kodai’s grand opening.’ We go outside and get through