I want you to go out tomorrow and buy a dozen handkerchiefs, a new wallet and key holder, she said. That much you can pick out yourself, I'm sure. And when was the last time you bought yourself new underwear?
I thought about it for a moment but couldn't remember. I cant remember, I said. Its been a while, I think, but I'm a little clean-crazy, and for a man living alone, I'm good about doing my laund- Never mind. I want you to buy a dozen tops and bottoms. I nodded without speaking. Just bring me a receipt. I'll pay for them. And make sure you buy the best they have. I'll pay your cleaning bills too. Don't wear a shirt more than once without sending it to the cleaners. All right?
I nodded again. The cleaner by the station would be happy to hear this. But, I thought to myself, proceeding to extend this one, concise conjunction, clinging to the window by surface tension, into a proper, full-length sentence: But why are you doing all this-buying me a whole new wardrobe, paying for my haircuts and cleaning?
She did not answer me. Instead, she took a Virginia Slim from her pocketbook and put it in her mouth. A tall waiter with regular features appeared from nowhere and, with practiced movements, lit her cigarette with a match. He struck the match with a clean, dry sound-the kind of sound that could stimulate a persons appetite. When he was through, he presented us with menus. She did not bother to look, however, and she told the waiter not to bother with the days specials. Bring me a salad and a dinner roll, and some kind of fish with white meat. Just a few drops of dressing on the salad, and a dash of pepper. And a glass of sparkling water, no ice.
I didn't want to bother looking at the menu. I'll have the same, I said. The waiter bowed and withdrew. My reality was still having trouble locating me, it seemed.
I'm asking purely out of curiosity, I said, trying once more to elicit an explanation from her. I'm not turning critical after you've bought me all these things, but is it really worth all the time and trouble and money?
Still she would not answer. I'm just curious, I said again.
Again no answer. She was too busy looking at the oil painting on the wall to answer my question. It was a picture of what I assumed was an Italian landscape, with a well-pruned pine tree, and several reddish farmhouses lining the hills. The houses were all somewhat small but pleasant. I wondered what kind of people might live in such houses: probably normal people living normal lives. None of them had inscrutable women coming out of nowhere to buy them suits and shoes and watches. None of them had to calculate the huge funds they would need to get possession of some dried-up well. I felt a stab of envy for people living in such a normal world. Envy is not an emotion I feel very often, but the scene in the painting aroused that sense in me to an almost amazing degree. If only I could have entered the picture right then and there! If only I could have walked into one of those farmhouses, enjoyed a glass of wine, then crawled under the covers and gone to sleep without a thought in my head!
The waiter came before long and placed glasses of sparkling water in front of the woman and me. She crushed out her cigarette in an ashtray.
Why don't you ask me something else? she said. While I was thinking about something else to ask, she took a sip of her sparkling water. Was that young man in the office in Akasaka your son? I asked. Of course, she answered without hesitation. Is he unable to speak? The woman nodded. He never spoke much to begin with, but all of a sudden, at the age of six, he stopped speaking entirely. He stopped using his voice in any way. Was there some kind of reason for that? She ignored this question. I tried to think of another. If he doesn't talk, how does he manage to take care of business? She wrinkled her brow just the slightest bit. She had not ignored my question, but she obviously had no intention of answering it. I'll bet you picked out everything he was wearing, from head to foot. The way you did with me. I do not like it when people wear the wrong thing. That is all. It is something I simply cannot- cannot- abide. I at least want the people around me to dress as well as possible. I want everything about them to look right, whether or not it can actually be seen.
I guess you don't like my appendix, then, I said, trying to make a joke.
Do you have some problem with the shape of your appendix? she asked, looking straight at me with an utterly serious expression. I regretted the joke.
Nothing at the moment, I said. I didn't really mean anything by it. It was just a kind of for instance.
She kept her questioning stare fixed on me a while longer-she was probably thinking about my appendix.
So anyhow, I want the people around me to look right, even if I have to pay for it myself. That is all there is to it. So don't let it worry you. I am doing this entirely for myself. I feel a personal, almost physical, revulsion for messy clothing.
The way a musician cant stand hearing music played off key? Something like that. So do you buy clothing this way for all the people around you? I guess I do. Not that I have so many people around me, to begin with. I mean, I may not like what they wear, but I cant exactly buy clothing for all the people in the world now, can I?
Everything has its limits, I said. Exactly.
Soon our salads came to the table, and we ate them. As the woman had specified, each salad had no more than a few drops of dressing-so few you could have counted them on one hand.
Do you have anything else you want to ask me? she asked.
Id like to know your name, I said. I mean, it would be helpful if you had a name or something I could use.
She said nothing for a few moments, as she crunched on a radish. Then she formed a deep wrinkle between her eyebrows, as if she had just found something bitter in her mouth by mistake. Why would you have to use my name? You wont be writing me any letters, I'm sure. Names are, if anything, irrelevant.
But what if I have to call you from behind, for example? Id need your name for that.
She laid her fork in her plate and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. I see what you mean, she said. That never crossed my mind. You're right, though. You might very well need my name in a situation like that.
She sat there thinking for a long time. While she was thinking, I ate my salad.
Lets see, now: you need a suitable name you can use for things like calling me from behind, correct?
That's pretty much it. So it doesn't have to be my real name, correct? I nodded. A name, a name ... what kind of name would be best? Something simple, something easy to call out, I would think. If possible, something concrete, something real, some thing you can really touch and see. That way, it would be easy to remember.
For example? For example, I call my cat Mackerel. In fact, I just named him yesterday. Mackerel, she said aloud, as if to confirm the sound of the word. Then she stared at the salt and pepper shakers on the table for a while, raised her face to me, and said, Nutmeg. Nutmeg?
It just popped into my head. You can call me that, if you don't mind. No, I don't mind at all. So what should I call your son? Cinnamon. Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme, I said, with a hint of melody. Nutmeg Akasaka and Cinnamon Akasaka. Not bad, don't you think? Nutmeg Akasaka and Cinnamon Akasaka: Wouldn't May Kasahara have been shocked if she knew that I had made the acquaintance of such people! For heavens sake, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, why cant you ever get involved with people who are a little more normal? Indeed, why not, May Kasahara? It was a question I could never have answered.