Popular Hits of the Showa Era by Ryu Murakami Page B

that were never perfectly stable and tended to clatter back and forth whenever you shifted your weight. As they seated themselves, a small window behind the counter opened, and an elderly woman in an apron—born thirty years or so too soon to have been a member of the Midori Society—spoke to them in a voice like tiny glass bells, a voice that might have belonged to a schoolgirl.
    “I’ve heated up some miso soup, so if you wouldn’t mind coming up to the counter and helping yourselves…”
    The miso soup contained potato slices and leeks, and it was soon joined on the table by festive platters of macaroni salad, stuffed green peppers, and teriyaki chicken.
    “Isn’t this great?” Suzuki Midori said. “It must be ten years since I’ve been to this inn, but nothing’s changed.”
    “Most places—even ski lodges—used to have this same system for dining,” Henmi Midori observed, and there followed the usual gabbling babble. Waah, what fun! This really takes me back! The green pepper’s yummy! Do you think these potatoes are organic?
    Takeuchi Midori got everyone’s attention by holding up an index finger. “Something’s missing,” she intoned solemnly. “And that something is…”
    “Beer!” they all cried in unison.
    And at precisely the same moment, a great BOOM! shook the earth beneath them. More booms followed shortly, rattling the empty glasses on the table. They also heard, at irregular intervals, a dry, staccato ta ta ta ta ta ta ta! The Midoris remained silent, listening, even after the oversized bottles of beer arrived.
    “Excuse me.” Suzuki Midori made a show of calling to their elderly hostess in the kitchen. “What are those sounds?”
    “It’s Kita-Fuji,” the old woman replied in her young girl’s voice. “There’s a Self-Defense Forces training area there, you know, on the north side of Mount Fuji. Nighttime artillery drills.”
    Suzuki Midori turned back to the others and said, “You see?”
    All of them nodded. They saw.

Rusty Knife
     
    I
     
    “I told you. This area has always been popular with young couples and all that, but not many people know that it’s also a treasure trove of weapons.”
    Suzuki Midori poured herself some beer from one of the big bottles as she said this, not forgetting to tilt the glass to stifle the foam. Ever since Iwata Midori had taken the bullet that made such a mess of her face and robbed her of her life, Suzuki Midori had gradually assumed, if only tacitly, the role of leader, and now the other Midoris followed her example by filling their own glasses as well. To pour one’s own drink was contrary to custom, and all four of them exchanged glances, fully aware of the significance of their break with convention. It was a bold expression of the plain fact that none of them had a special someone in her life to pour for her, or for whom to pour. This was something they’d never thought about when they were six. Whenever they’d gathered at someone’s apartment or condo in those days, they had always poured for each other in a random sort of way, saying things like, You’ll have some more, won’t you? or Allow me! Three of the surviving Midoris worked in business environments, and they all knew that in Europe and America it was common for gentlemen to pour for ladies and for the host of a party to pour for each of his guests—especially when fine wines were involved. Further complicating the matter was the fact that recently in their own country there had been incidents in which certain business executives, who’d insisted during company R&R trips that female employees pour the drinks, had been sued for sexual harassment. In any case, it was decidedly not in a spirit of loneliness that each of the four surviving Midoris poured her own beer and watched the others do the same.
    “Well, then,” Suzuki Midori said, and they raised their glasses.
    Since the deaths of their two comrades, all of the remaining Midoris had come to a more or less