fact, you’re the first person I’ve ever talked to like this, about my mother’s new husband and everything. I’ve never told anyone about these things, ever . . .’
7
Aoyama escorted her home in a taxi. They’d taken their time during the meal, following the wine with grappa and lingering over dessert, and now it was past eleven. He was sure she’d gladly have gone along if he’d suggested they have another drink somewhere, but he felt that dinner was enough for tonight. The exhilarating sort of tension he’d experienced for the past five hours was taking its toll, and besides, he didn’t want to press his luck. How much happiness, after all, would the gods allow one man?
Mushy with wine and grappa, he wanted to hold her hand in the taxi, but decided after some mental wrestling to resist that impulse too. And thought: a 42-year-old man who frets over whether or not to hold hands – how ridiculous is that?
‘Let’s have dinner again soon,’ he said when the taxi stopped to let her out near Nakameguro station.
‘When?’ she said immediately, then looked embarrassed at having let her eagerness show. Like a child caught in some harmless mischief. The subtle play of facial expressions – the momentary blush of embarrassment, followed immediately by a droop of the head and a smile that betrayed the joy bubbling up inside her – was more eloquent than any words, and Aoyama found it intoxicating.
‘I’ll call you,’ he said, and she quietly replied:
‘I’ll be waiting.’
‘Sorry to bother you so late.’
He was using his mobile to telephone Yoshikawa on the way home. He could scarcely believe how well the date had gone. The back seat of the taxi might as well have been a cloud, and he felt as if the blood in his veins had turned to honey. Catching a whiff of her cologne on the headrest beside him, he remembered agonising over whether or not to hold her hand. But his euphoria painted the memory in a romantic light and reassured him that love could make a man feel that way, even a man his age. He’d taken the phone from his briefcase thinking he’d like to share these feelings with all the forty-something men of the world, but of course Yoshikawa was the only one he could actually call.
‘Were you sleeping?’
‘What’s up? It’s nearly midnight.’
Yoshikawa sounded tired. Or possibly drunk. Aoyama had been to his house a few times, and imagined him sitting in his narrow den, drinking Cordon Bleu after the wife and kid had gone to bed. He would have taken the bottle and a glass from the shelves that also held his golf trophies, sliced himself a little cheese in the kitchen, and sat down to pass some quiet time with a magazine or a video. Poor bastard, thought Aoyama – getting drunk all alone before bed. I have to let him know that being middle-aged doesn’t mean all your opportunities are behind you, that you can’t just give up.
‘I had a date tonight.’ Aoyama tried to keep the elation out of his voice.
‘Oh yeah? And?’
‘Learned all about her sublime past.’
‘Such as?’
‘I can’t give you the details – it’s very personal stuff – but I can tell you she had an incredibly difficult childhood and managed to rise above it, all on her own. Of course, that may not mean much to a cynic like you . . .’
He paused, but Yoshikawa didn’t say anything.
‘Hello? You there?’
‘I’m here.’
The irritation in Yoshikawa’s voice dampened the euphoria somewhat. Why couldn’t the bastard rejoice a little over his friend’s good fortune? Aoyama remembered reading an article by a famous lady columnist about how our ability to feel and express emotions – to distort our faces with joy, or wail and weep with sorrow, or collapse in agony, or wallow in sentimentality – wasn’t an inviolable human trait but something we can lose simply by leading dull
7
Aoyama escorted her home in a taxi. They’d taken their time during the meal, following the wine with grappa and lingering over dessert, and now it was past eleven. He was sure she’d gladly have gone along if he’d suggested they have another drink somewhere, but he felt that dinner was enough for tonight. The exhilarating sort of tension he’d experienced for the past five hours was taking its toll, and besides, he didn’t want to press his luck. How much happiness, after all, would the gods allow one man?
Mushy with wine and grappa, he wanted to hold her hand in the taxi, but decided after some mental wrestling to resist that impulse too. And thought: a 42-year-old man who frets over whether or not to hold hands – how ridiculous is that?
‘Let’s have dinner again soon,’ he said when the taxi stopped to let her out near Nakameguro station.
‘When?’ she said immediately, then looked embarrassed at having let her eagerness show. Like a child caught in some harmless mischief. The subtle play of facial expressions – the momentary blush of embarrassment, followed immediately by a droop of the head and a smile that betrayed the joy bubbling up inside her – was more eloquent than any words, and Aoyama found it intoxicating.
‘I’ll call you,’ he said, and she quietly replied:
‘I’ll be waiting.’
‘Sorry to bother you so late.’
He was using his mobile to telephone Yoshikawa on the way home. He could scarcely believe how well the date had gone. The back seat of the taxi might as well have been a cloud, and he felt as if the blood in his veins had turned to honey. Catching a whiff of her cologne on the headrest beside him, he remembered agonising over whether or not to hold her hand. But his euphoria painted the memory in a romantic light and reassured him that love could make a man feel that way, even a man his age. He’d taken the phone from his briefcase thinking he’d like to share these feelings with all the forty-something men of the world, but of course Yoshikawa was the only one he could actually call.
‘Were you sleeping?’
‘What’s up? It’s nearly midnight.’
Yoshikawa sounded tired. Or possibly drunk. Aoyama had been to his house a few times, and imagined him sitting in his narrow den, drinking Cordon Bleu after the wife and kid had gone to bed. He would have taken the bottle and a glass from the shelves that also held his golf trophies, sliced himself a little cheese in the kitchen, and sat down to pass some quiet time with a magazine or a video. Poor bastard, thought Aoyama – getting drunk all alone before bed. I have to let him know that being middle-aged doesn’t mean all your opportunities are behind you, that you can’t just give up.
‘I had a date tonight.’ Aoyama tried to keep the elation out of his voice.
‘Oh yeah? And?’
‘Learned all about her sublime past.’
‘Such as?’
‘I can’t give you the details – it’s very personal stuff – but I can tell you she had an incredibly difficult childhood and managed to rise above it, all on her own. Of course, that may not mean much to a cynic like you . . .’
He paused, but Yoshikawa didn’t say anything.
‘Hello? You there?’
‘I’m here.’
The irritation in Yoshikawa’s voice dampened the euphoria somewhat. Why couldn’t the bastard rejoice a little over his friend’s good fortune? Aoyama remembered reading an article by a famous lady columnist about how our ability to feel and express emotions – to distort our faces with joy, or wail and weep with sorrow, or collapse in agony, or wallow in sentimentality – wasn’t an inviolable human trait but something we can lose simply by leading dull
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