I just happened to have the time and money

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“Kinako-san, would you like to go out for a meal? I found a place that I think women would like.”

That was what a man said when he invited me.

I met him around the time I started attending private computer lessons to learn how to build a website.

He was in his mid-forties.

He was tall, had a sturdy build, and looked a lot like the actor Takao Osawa.

He always wore his suits neatly and had a gentle demeanor.

He was a man who truly fit the word 'gentleman'.

He had gone independent and set up an office in Namba, where he took on various computer-related jobs.

He said he used to be an instructor for computer classes sponsored by the city.

At night, he held private computer lessons at his office.

Three thousand yen per hour.

It was a ticket-based system, and I bought thirty thousand yen worth of tickets about twice.

Whenever I went to the classroom, he would always serve me tea and snacks like cookies.

Even though I was supposed to be learning how to build a website, I might have spent more time chatting than working on the computer.

That he had a son in college.

That he went to his son's college entrance ceremony with his wife.

That they had a dog at home.

He often talked about his family like that.

One day, he said:

My wife is much smarter than I am.

I was a little surprised.

Because he himself was a very smart person.

Once, my computer was infected with a virus.

When I asked him for advice,

I can fix it,

he said, and he spent the whole day finding the necessary programs on English websites to fix it for me.

What's more, he didn't charge me anything.

I think it was a job that would have cost about 30,000 yen if I had asked a professional.

What kind of woman could his wife be, if he says she is smarter than him?

Perhaps she runs some kind of website and earns more than he does.

I was imagining things on my own.

One day, he invited me out to dinner.

I found a restaurant that women seem to like,

he said, and took me to a slightly stylish restaurant that served Southeast Asian cuisine.

Actually, I knew that restaurant well.

I had been there many times.

But thinking that he had gone out of his way to look it up and bring me there,

I come here often,

I couldn't bring myself to say.

We had a meal together, pretending as if it were our first time meeting.

That day, he had prepared a jazz piano CD for me.

"Kinako-san, you look a lot like a junior of mine from my university days."

He even said things like that.

After that, I became busy with work and stopped going to the classroom.

I gradually drifted apart from him as well.

A while later, I learned that he had started a website introducing sweets.

For some reason, I was included as one of the members.

Then, I found out on Facebook that he had fallen ill and was hospitalized.

I became concerned and started checking his Facebook from time to time.

One day, there was a photo of a laptop posted.

"This is my final gift to myself."

Those words were attached to it.

The word "final" bothered me.

Also, one day, something like this was written.

I want to clean up my late mother's house.

There are things like a koto, so if there is anyone who would like to have them, I would appreciate it.

Is there anyone who can help me with the cleaning?

I read that post.

Even so, I could not bring myself to contact him.

I think I was afraid to see him when he became ill.

A while later, an article about a jazz concert was posted on Facebook.

It was not posted by him.

Someone from the nursing care facility he was staying at had posted it on his behalf.

Seeing a photo of him with several other people, I was speechless.

There was almost nothing left of the man I knew.

He was a man who always wore his suits neatly and stood with his back straight.

His head was tilted, and it looked as if he had difficulty moving his hands freely.

Even so, he was somehow managing to rest his right hand on a guitar.

His diagnosis was,

Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis—ALS.

The hands that used to operate a computer with ease.

The hands that spent an entire day fixing my broken computer.

The hands that used to play jazz.

Those hands could no longer move freely.

Even so, he had been trying to clear out his mother's house.

About a month after that,

I learned on Facebook that he had passed away.

I wanted to know about his final moments.

I sent an email to the person who had been writing about him on Facebook.

That person was a doctor.

He said he had performed with him only once before at a jazz concert.

The things I heard from the doctor were all things I had not known.

He had divorced his wife.

His mother had also passed away.

And his younger brother, who suffered from the same ALS as he did, had also passed away a short while ago.

I remembered the words he used to say with a laugh long ago.

"My wife is much smarter than I am."

The image of his family that I had imagined on my own had vanished before I knew it.

There was no family close to him to support his daily life.

Because of that, the doctor became his guarantor, and he lived in a nursing facility, I heard.

One day, his condition suddenly took a turn for the worse.

He was rushed to the hospital and reached a state where he could no longer breathe on his own.

Should they perform a tracheotomy and put him on a ventilator?

The doctor said he was forced to make a major decision.

There was no family who could continue to support his life of medical care afterward.

The doctor told me that after considering various circumstances, he chose not to put him on a ventilator.

And then, he said quietly,

"I wish I had asked him what he wanted to do when he was healthier."

I could not say anything.

People rarely think about the end of their lives while they are still healthy.

Perhaps he himself never imagined that such a day would come.

When he passed away, the doctor held a funeral for him.

Then, he took his remains and traveled to his hometown.

It was to inter them in his family grave.

I was surprised.

They were not family.

They were not close friends from their student days either.

They were not work colleagues either.

He was just someone he had performed with only once at a jazz concert.

That person became his guarantor,

saw him through his final moments,

held his funeral,

and delivered his remains to his hometown grave.

I said to the doctor,

"Doctor, I don't think that is something just anyone could do."

The doctor then replied casually, without any sign that he had done something extraordinary.

"I just happened to have the time and money, that's all."

I still cannot forget those words even now.

The jazz piano CD he gave me.

The guitar his right hand was resting on at the end.

And,

the one who accompanied him back to his grave in his hometown,

was a connection made just once, through jazz.

"I just happened to have the time and money, that's all."

Perhaps human kindness,

is unexpectedly quiet, just like this.