South of the Border, West of the Sun Page 0,32
I’m not that wild about my face. So I’m very happy you said that. Unfortunately, other women don’t like me much. Many’s the time I thought this: I don’t want people to say I’m pretty. I just want to be an ordinary girl and make friends like everyone else.”
She reached out a hand and lightly brushed mine on the counter. “But I’m happy that you’re enjoying life.”
I was silent.
“You are happy, aren’t you?” she asked.
“I don’t know. At least I’m not unhappy, and I’m not lonely.” A moment later, I added, “But sometimes the thought strikes me that the happiest time of my life was when we were together in your living room, listening to music.”
“You know, I still have those records. Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby, Rossini, the Peer Gynt Suite, and all the others. Every single one. A keepsake from my father when he died. I take good care of them, so even now they don’t have a single scratch. And you remember how carefully I took care of records.”
“So your father died.”
“Five years ago, cancer of the colon. A horrible way to go. And he’d always been so healthy.”
I’d met her father a few times. He always struck me as being tough as the oak tree that grew in their garden.
“Is your mother well?” I asked.
“Hmm. I guess so.”
Her tone of voice bothered me. “You don’t get along with her, then?”
Shimamoto finished her daiquiri, put the glass on the counter, and called the bartender over. “Do you have any special house cocktail you’d recommend?”
“We have several original cocktails,” I said. “The most popular one’s Robin’s Nest, after the bar. A little thing I whipped up myself. You use rum and vodka as a base. It’s easy going down, but it packs a wallop.”
“Sounds good for wooing women.”
“Well, I thought that was the whole point of cocktails.”
She smiled. “Okay, I’ll try one.”
When the cocktail was placed in front of her, she gazed at the color, then took a tentative sip. She closed her eyes and let the flavor take over. “It’s a very subtle taste, isn’t it,” she said. “Not exactly sweet or tart. A light, simple flavor, but with some body. I had no idea you were so talented.”
“I can’t build a simple shelf. I have no idea how to change an oil filter on a car. I can’t even paste on a postage stamp straight. And I’m always dialing the wrong number. But I have come up with a few original cocktails that people seem to like.”
She rested her glass on a coaster and looked at it for a while. When she tipped the glass, the reflection of the overhead lights shivered slightly.
“I haven’t seen my mother for a long time. There was a blowup about ten years ago, and I’ve barely seen her since. Of course, we did see each other at my father’s funeral.”
The piano trio finished an original blues number and began the intro to “Star-Crossed Lovers.” When I was in the bar, the pianist would often strike up that ballad, knowing it was a favorite of mine. It wasn’t one of Ellington’s best-known tunes, and I had no particular memories associated with it; just happened to hear it once, and it struck some chord within me. From college to those bleak textbook-company years, come evening I’d listen to the Such Sweet Thunder album, the “Star-Crossed Lovers” track over and over. Johnny Hodges had this sensitive and elegant solo on it. Whenever I heard that languid, beautiful melody, those days came back to me. It wasn’t what I’d characterize as a happy part of my life, living as I was, a balled-up mass of unfulfilled desires. I was much younger, much hungrier, much more alone. But I was myself, pared down to the essentials. I could feel each single note of music, each line I read, seep down deep inside me. My nerves were sharp as a blade, my eyes shining with a piercing light. And every time I heard that music, I recalled my eyes then, glaring back at me from a mirror.
“You know,” I said, “once, when I was in the last year of junior high, I did go to see you. I felt so lonely I couldn’t stand it any longer. I tried calling you, but there was no answer. I rode the train over to your place, but someone else’s name was on the mailbox.”
“My father was transferred, and we moved two years after you did. To Fujisawa, near