Nureki Chimuo Archive

Two months ago, no, even long before that, when we passed by, Rakka-san had shown interest in the old-fashioned atmosphere of that coffee shop’s facade and said, “I’d like to go inside.”

I grunted and shook my head, making it clear that I didn’t want to go in. Then we quickly walked right past the shop.

It’s a coffee shop located on the second floor of a corner building that looks as if it were built right after the war, that is, sixty or seventy years ago, a building that’s far too dilapidated. To put it dramatically, it’s half ruined.

Just by looking at it from the outside, I can sense the dark, stagnant atmosphere inside and the taste of that thick, murky coffee.

I wrote “the shop’s facade,” but from the street, all you can see are the old-fashioned decorative elements on the second floor windows. A sign bearing the shop’s name, “Hakuran,” hangs next to the window. I can see the upper bodies of the customers sitting by the window.

There is a wooden staircase right next to the street, and to the left of the entrance is an old-fashioned, weathered display window.

I don’t dislike this kind of atmosphere. In fact, I rather like it.

More than whether I like it or not, I was born in the working class district and raised in its slums.

Because of that, I knew all too well the “flavor” of coffee shops with this kind of atmosphere.

So, I said to Rakka-san,“When you go up those wooden stairs, the first thing that hits you, even before the smell of coffee, is the pungent smell of tomato ketchup sizzling in a frying

pan as they stir-fry spaghetti. The coffee is absolutely awful. And the vinyl-covered, sticky chairs have holes patched up with duct tape.”

But she got more and more excited, at times even gasping, saying in a tone like a spoiled child, “Wow, I’d love to go in there.”

Over the past few years, she and I have gotten off at this JR station more than a dozen times, passing by that coffee shop located at the entrance to a shopping district that still retains the atmosphere of a postwar black market.

Even though it’s just old-fashioned, lacking any real charm and giving off a somewhat shady, dingy vibe, every time we walk by she says “I want to go in” and I shake my head.

However, on this day, after we’d finished what we’d come to this town to do, on our way back to the station four hours later, it suddenly occurred to me: “That’s right, let’s stop by that cafe today.”

That would fulfill Rakka-san’s long-held wish from the past few years. I decided to grant her that wish.

No, it’s not that grand. Calling it her “long-held wish” is an overstatement. For her, it’s probably just a casual thing. A shop that catches her eyes and piques her curiosity every time she walks by.

To begin with, the reason she and I came to this town was to see a play. That’s all there is to it.

We took the train to see the play, met at the station, and walked through the town’s row of shabby, old-fashioned shops that seemed stuck in a bygone era.

The play that had captured my and Rakka-san’s hearts and wouldn’t let go was inside a building located down the street to the right, after passing through a shopping district that resembled a black market.

Yes, the reason I thought “Let’s stop by that coffee shop on the way home today” was probably because I had a feeling that we might not be coming back to this town again.

On my way home after watching the nearly four-hour play, I had the chance to exchange a few words with an actor named Terushi, who was standing there to see the audience off.

“What’s wrong? You seem to have lost your energy,” I said, standing right in front of him and speaking to him out of the blue.

For some reason, the unexpected shock I felt at his reply and the urge I felt to climb the stairs to that second-floor coffee shop, “Hakuran,” are somehow connected in my mind.

In a sense, Terushi’s reply to me at that moment was what prompted me to head up to “Hakuran.”

No, I said to Terushi, “No, the whole troupe’s energy is flagging.”

Depending on the situation, that should have been a rather rude criticism.

But he responded honestly, replying immediately in a low, quiet voice.

“I know. It’s cancer. My spleen is bad. I really should be hospitalized.”

My heart sank and I groaned.

Right next to me, Rakka-san was listening to that as well.

“That’s terrible,” I said, but I couldn’t find the words to say anything else. The shock was too great.

I seem to recall saying something like, “Please take care of yourself.”

Rakka-san, standing nearby, said something along the lines of “This person really loves your performances.”

By “this person,” she meant me.

Since he was still wearing his stage makeup, I couldn’t quite make out his complexion, but I think his expression was indeed somber.

Terushi is officially the troupe leader. There is another troupe leader in this company, Terushi’s biological older brother, but even he lacked his usual vigor and charm.

Naturally, if the troupe leader falls ill to the point of needing hospitalization, it would affect the morale of the entire troupe of fifteen or sixteen members. Terushi is a popular actor. Come to think of it, both Rakka-san and I had come here specifically to see Terushi.

Speechless, I walked away from him. I’d spoken with him for only two or three minutes.

But I couldn’t get him out of my head.

Complex, surging waves churned within my heart, and to distract myself from them I found myself climbing the stairs to “Hakuran,” located on the way back to the station.

What possible connection could there be between learning of Terushi’s illness and the coffee at “Hakuran?”

Just because Terushi had cancer and his performances on stage had lost their sparkle, what does that have to do with me? I asked myself these questions over and over.

There shouldn’t be any connection at all, should there?

For one thing, this was the first time I’d ever exchanged a word with Terushi.

Until then, I had been nothing more than one of the many audience members who came to the troupe’s plays.

I’d never once given him a tip. I’m poor so even if I wanted to I couldn’t afford to tip the actors.

I’d never even sent him a fan letter.

However, when they performed in the Tokyo area, Rakka-san invited me and I went to see them twice in a row.

As an audience member, I never did anything to stand out. I was just one of the many spectators. To him, my existence must be practically nonexistent.

If I had to describe it, I suppose my impression on him was that of a mysterious, middle-aged man with a potbelly (that’s me) who occasionally appeared in the audience alongside a young beauty (Rakka-san).

So why, just because I approached him, did he talk so openly and naturally about what’s important to him?

First I was deeply moved by that, and then I was even more shocked by the gravity of what he revealed.

After the play ended, we parted ways with Terushi, who had seen us off, and Rakka-san and I headed for the station. We were on our way home.

“Are we taking the usual route?” I asked her.

“Of course,” she replied firmly.

“I really like this,” I murmured.

That narrow alley she loved ran along the back side of the main street we’d walked on the way there.

On both sides of the narrow, dark, winding alley, low-ceilinged, shack-like cheap bars were packed tightly together.

It’s a neighborhood even more steeped in the colors and smells of that era than the main street, where cheap establishments with their doors and windows wide open, belching out smoke from grilled offal, are haphazardly lined up one on top of the other, preserving the atmosphere of a postwar black market.

The second floors of most of these bars seem to be occupied by shops offering massages, hand rubs, foot rubs, and body scrubs, with signs crammed together everywhere. The buildings themselves look rather shady.

Facing the street are narrow, steep wooden staircases leading to the entrances, with women of unknown nationality dressed in dresses standing nearby. They lure drunken patrons with an intonation distinct from Japanese.

Since I’m walking right behind Rakka-san, those women don’t call out to me.

“Hakuran” is located on the second floor of the building on the left, at the end of that alley, which exudes a stimulating yet slightly frightening, decadent beauty, leading out to the street in front of the station.

Over the past few years, Rakka-san has expressed interest in going there many times and suggested we go in, but I’ve always shaken my head and refused, precisely because that cafe is located right in the heart of that kind of neighborhood. The truth is, I’m actually a very timid person. To me, it looks like the entrance to the underworld.

No, now is not the time to be describing such a scary alley.

What kind of feelings have Rakka-san and I had as we’ve continued to watch the actor Terushi and the plays performed by the troupe he belongs to? I must write about that.

To put it simply, their performances possess a decadent beauty, like a mud painting, that’s utterly captivating and imbued with a distinct local flavor that cannot be experienced anywhere else.

They are probably not even aware of this themselves. The fact that they perform without being aware of it is what makes it interesting. It’s amazing. It’s fun. If I don’t write about this now, you won’t understand the state of mind in which I (and Rakka-san) were left reeling by his illness.

I’ll start by writing about the cheer Rakka-san let out when she pushed open the door of the “Hakuran” coffee shop after climbing the old wooden stairs that creaked with every step.

Just as I predicted, the moment the door opened, the lukewarm, tomato-ketchup-scented steam from the Napolitan pasta inside the cafe hit my face in a wave. I’ll note that much first.