The Rising Fish

The Rising Fish

Among our cohort, Sudo was the first to rise.

It was my idea to go out for a celebratory meal. I went out of my way to book a sushi restaurant with only a counter, one that was notoriously hard to get into. I didn't go so far as to say I would treat him, but I knew before we even stepped through the noren curtain that I would likely end up paying the lion's share. I wore the face of someone celebrating, though I didn't really understand what it was I was celebrating myself.

"Sorry about this place," Sudo said. It wasn't the voice of someone who actually felt sorry.

The white wood counter was wiped so clean there wasn't a trace of moisture. Behind the serving board, the chef was silently slicing into a piece of silver-skinned fish. The first thing placed before us was kohada (gizzard shad). Fine knife work had been applied to the vinegar-cured flesh, and the silver of the skin dulled the reflection of the lights. When I brought it to my mouth, the gentle acidity, with the sharp edge of the vinegar removed, slowly gave way to the rich oil of the blue-backed fish. The rice crumbled effortlessly, and the aroma of red vinegar drifted up through my nose.

Delicious. There was no room for complaint.

Sudo also put his piece in his mouth and gave a small nod. That was all.

I dripped a little soy sauce into the small dish placed at the corner of the counter. It didn't quite reach the level of the wood-barrel-aged soy sauce I had sent from my parents' home in Shimane, but this shop's was not bad—a good, sharp, dark soy sauce. When the medium-fatty tuna was served, I dipped the edge of it slightly into the soy sauce before putting it in my mouth. The fat melted with the heat of my tongue, and the saltiness of the soy sauce caught it. It was a perfect piece.

"Sudo, which department are you looking at next?"

"Not decided yet. Well, I've had a few offers."

A few. I couldn't quite gauge the weight of those words. He spoke of offers—of which I had received none—while washing it down with beer, as casually as if he were talking about the weather.

Sea urchin gunkan-maki was served. The orange flesh was piled softly atop the fragrant seaweed. When I took it into my mouth, the sweetness of the sea dissolved and vanished on my tongue. Delicious. The more delicious it was, the less I understood why I was sitting here. While we carried the fish from the same platter to our mouths in the same order, Sudo was already swimming at a different speed than I was.

"Don't be impatient," Sudo said. "Your strength isn't that kind of thing."

I had no idea what "that kind of thing" referred to. There was only a definitive line drawn there, disguised as consolation. He had categorized me, thought he understood me, and stopped thinking about it at that.

For the finale, simmered conger eel was served.

The chef brushed a layer of reduced sauce over the plump, steamed flesh. The glossy amber color shone on top of the white rice. When I lifted it with my chopsticks, it was so soft it felt like it might break under its own weight. The moment I put it in my mouth, the eel fell apart almost before I could chew, and the sweet sauce and the delicate flavor of the white fish melted into one on my tongue.

I closed my eyes without thinking.

That was when I noticed. Sudo's soy sauce dish had not been used once from start to finish. Not a single drop of soy sauce had fallen into his small white dish. He had trusted only the sauce and the nikiri (brushed-on soy glaze) the chef provided, never once adding flavor himself.

As for me, I had somehow stained my own soy sauce dish a deep brown. With every piece served, I couldn't help but add saltiness with my own hand. Somewhere along the line, I hadn't been able to fully trust the work of this shop.

"Thanks for the meal. That was delicious."

Sudo wiped his fingers carefully with a hot towel, and without even a gesture toward his wallet, he ducked through the noren curtain and left first. After paying the bill, I stared for a while at the two soy sauce dishes left on the counter. One remained white. The other was stained like a murky sea by the saltiness I had kept adding. The chef said nothing, simply wiping only the dish in front of me with a cloth before taking it away.

[Returning Home: Dashi Chazuke and Sudo's Back]

The night air in the city was cold, as if to chase away the lingering impression of the sushi.

I parted ways with Sudo at the station. On the other side of the ticket gate, he raised one hand lightly and disappeared into the crowd. His back was straight, without a hint of hesitation. He is always like that. He is the back of a man who does not add soy sauce, I thought. He entrusts his own flavor entirely to the shop, to the world. The talent for belief. It was something I was decisively lacking.

I truly wanted to celebrate him. He was the most capable man among our peers. I acknowledge that. And yet, I also knew that the cold lump that sank to the bottom of my stomach while I chewed on the sea urchin bore the name of jealousy. Celebration and jealousy were served on the same plate, inseparable.

I arrive back at my room. I take off my coat and turn on the light. The silence of no one being there remained exactly as it was before I left. This cold studio apartment felt much more familiar to my skin than the tense atmosphere of the sushi restaurant.

My stomach was still a little unsatisfied.

In front of Sudo, I had somehow failed to taste things properly. I couldn't honestly swallow what should have been delicious. That is why I stand in the kitchen. Tonight's finale is a bowl that I face only with my own tongue, without caring about anyone else's eyes.

I fill a small pot with water and sink a piece of Rausu kelp into it. It's something I have my parents send me. I put it on low heat and pull the kelp out just before fine bubbles begin to form on the surface of the pot. You must not let it boil. It will become bitter. Instead, I drop in a handful of freshly shaved bonito flakes. They dance like flower petals in the hot water and then sink. I turn off the heat and wait for a while. The clear, golden dashi broth quietly settles.

I scoop a light portion of cold rice into a bowl. Rice that isn't freshly cooked, but has settled a bit, is better for chazuke. On top, I flake some salmon that has been salted and grilled, and crumble some toasted Ariake nori seaweed by hand. I add a few grains of Japanese pepper, and then just a single drop of soy sauce brewed in wooden barrels from Shimane for fragrance.

I pour the hot dashi over the mound of rice.

With a soft hiss, the rice collapses. The aroma of the bonito rises with the steam, filling the small kitchen. I scoop it up lightly with my chopsticks and slurp it down.

—It soaks in.

The clear umami of the kelp and bonito quietly seeps into the walls of my stomach, tired from the sushi. The saltiness of the salmon and the oceanic scent of the nori. The Japanese pepper pops lightly on the tip of my tongue, leaving a refreshing numbness. More than any of the pieces of sushi that had exhausted such luxury, this simple bowl reached my body correctly right now.

This is not something to serve to anyone. It is not a bowl meant to compete with the whiteness of Sudo's soy sauce dish. It was just a functional, yet certain bowl, meant only to properly conclude my own body tonight and pass it on to tomorrow.

I empty the bowl and drink a cup of hot water. I brush my teeth and turn off the light. In the darkness, Sudo's straight back and the clear color of the golden dashi floated and vanished alternately. Just before falling asleep, I realized that I still hadn't managed to fully hate that man, and I closed my eyes with a feeling that was neither here nor there—as if I were slightly saved, yet all the more miserable.

[The Next Morning: Cutting Through the Water, Five Hundred Meters of Silence]

In the morning, I woke up to violent light.

The lingering taste of last night's dashi was no longer in my stomach, but Sudo's words, 'Don't you be impatient,' were stuck in the back of my throat like sediment. On mornings like this, it's best to move your body. If you think about it in your head, nothing good comes of it.

I shoulder my sports bag and head to the sports club, where there are still few people. I change in the locker room that smells of chlorine and stand by the poolside. The water surface first thing in the morning was a blue as quiet as a mirror, untouched by anyone's hands.

I dive in.

The cold water envelops my entire body, washing away last night's thoughts in an instant. I stroke through the water. With every breath I take, the world flickers. It is silent underwater. No one's voice, no one's judgment can reach me here. There is no man here who has "received several offers," nor am I the one who has received none. There is only a single body, stroking forward through the water.

I swim back and forth across the twenty-five meters. Ten laps, twenty laps. My arms grow heavy, and my heart pounds against my chest. My breathing becomes the entirety of the world. This simplicity felt unbearably comfortable. I cannot beat Sudo in the speed of my work. But, I can do this—keep stroking through the water in silence. No one praises me for it, but no one can take it away from me, either.

When I climbed out of the pool, my core felt warm. My head felt light, as if all the water in my body had been replaced. And, I was ravenously hungry.

Survival returns directly in the form of hunger. This sensation, at least, does not lie.

[Morning Lunch: The Edge of a Fried Egg Yolk]

As I take a shower and dry my hair, I wonder what I should eat this morning. After exercise, I don't need anything elaborate to satisfy my hunger. I just need one dish that is definitively delicious.

I left the club and stepped into an old coffee shop one street over. They were serving breakfast. I ordered "toast and a fried egg" and waited for a dark blend coffee.

On the plate that was brought to me, the fried egg was perfect.

The edges of the egg white were slightly scorched by the heat of the iron plate, curling up into a crisp, lace-like texture. The yolk in the center was not overcooked, remaining a glossy orange and rising up with a gentle wobble. The thick-cut toast was toasted to a golden brown on the surface, with butter soaking into the corners until they were translucent.

First, I gently insert my chopsticks into the edge of the fried egg yolk.

The thick, orange yolk flows out smoothly. I immediately scoop it up with the corner of the toast and carry it to my mouth. The savory aroma of toasted wheat, the saltiness of the melted butter, and the rich sweetness of the yolk that mingles with them. The savory crunch of the scorched edges of the egg white.

—Delicious.

It was a completely different kind of deliciousness from last night's sushi. If that was the deliciousness of taut tension, this is the deliciousness of being allowed to relax. A defenseless happiness, satisfied for five hundred yen, without having to read anyone's face. I take a sip of the blend. The deep bitterness washes away the sweetness of the yolk, preparing my mouth for the next bite.

Outside the window, a stream of suits on their way to work flows by. Sudo is likely among them. A man who has received several offers, swimming straight toward some department again today.

I think to myself. I am here, on a weekday morning, stroking through water in a pool and breaking the yolk of a fried egg. I am losing to Sudo. That is, perhaps, true. But, I am the only one—not anyone in that office—who is properly savoring this perfect char on the edge of the yolk at this very moment. Whether that is a win or a loss, I do not know. Not knowing, I use the last piece of toast to cleanly wipe up the remaining yolk on the plate.

[Lunch: The Rightness of Standing-Bar Plain Udon]

In the afternoon, I walked around the city a bit.

At lunchtime, I wasn't that hungry yet, but inside the station, the smell of dashi broth made me stop in my tracks. It was a standing-bar udon shop. I pressed the button for "kake udon" at the ticket machine. The cheapest one, with nothing on it—plain udon.

A steaming bowl is brusquely slid over the counter to me.

A clear, pale golden broth. It is a commercial broth, far rougher and much stronger than the one I made in my own kitchen last night. But, in its own way, it was right. I first sip the surface, where only green onions float. The rough, savory flavor of dried sardines slides down my throat. I pull up the udon noodles. They are soft, unreliable noodles. There is no firmness to them. And that is fine.

The simmered conger eel from last night, this morning's fried egg, and this plain udon—they are all delicious. It is probably wrong to rank deliciousness. Sudo's promotion and my own mediocrity might actually be the same thing. They are nothing more than different toppings in the same bowl.

Even as I tried to think that way, I couldn't quite bring myself to believe it. Even after I drank the broth settled at the bottom of the bowl, the straightness of Sudo's back did not fade by even a millimeter. Jealousy is not something that can be washed away with a single bowl of plain udon.

[Night: Alone, with duck, and a drink poured for oneself]

At night, I was standing in the kitchen again.

Since lunch was light, I decided to make a proper meal for dinner. I take the duck breast out of the refrigerator. I score the skin in a fine grid pattern, place it skin-side down in a cold pan without heating it first, and slowly melt the fat over low heat. Without rushing, until the fat becomes clear and transparent. Only the sound of the fat popping echoed in the quiet room. It was a sound that reminded me of Sudo's silence.

Once the skin is seared to a golden brown, I quickly flip the meat and let it cook through with the residual heat. When I slice it, the cross-section is a clear, rose color. I arrange it on a plate and serve it with a sauce made of Shimane wooden-barrel-aged soy sauce, mirin, and grated wasabi.

Pshhh, I open a can of beer. I don't pour it into a glass. I put my lips to it as is and pour it down my dry throat.

—Ahhh.

The bitterness of the carbonation and the barley seeps into my cells. I dip a slice of duck generously into the wasabi soy sauce and toss it into my mouth. The moist elasticity of the lean meat, the savory fat of the skin, the sharp heat of the wasabi rising through my nose, and the deep, rich flavor of the soy sauce bring it all together. I immediately follow it with the beer. It was a perfect cycle.

Delicious. That something this delicious can be born from my own hands. That fact alone makes the sediment at the bottom of my heart feel a little lighter.

What is Sudo eating tonight? Is that man, who has been called upon by so many, sitting with someone at some delicious restaurant, tilting his glass with a face that believes in the world completely, without adding a single drop of soy sauce? Or is he, too, opening a can of beer in a room by himself?

I didn't know. I probably never will.

I congratulated him. From the bottom of my heart. At the same time, I couldn't help but feel frustrated that I had been left behind by him. I admired the straightness of his back, and I found a little comfort in discovering his lack of talent in the stains on my own soy sauce dish. The celebration, the jealousy, the friendship—all of it was served on this plate of duck, inseparable. I could not choose one and discard the others.

I finish the duck and empty the can. I scoop up the remaining wasabi soy sauce on the plate with my finger and lick it. It was salty, and for a moment, the back of my nose stung. I couldn't tell if it was because of the wasabi or not.

I stand at the sink and wash the plate. Tonight, too, I have dirtied my own soy sauce dish like a murky sea. That is fine, I thought. A man who cannot believe completely has the taste of a man who cannot believe completely, on a dirty dish.

Tomorrow, I will be hungry again. When that happens, I will just eat something else. I probably won't be able to forget about Sudo for a while. Without being able to forget, I will likely draw broth, crack eggs, and go to fetch water again.

Outside the window, it was dark, and only my shadow was vaguely reflected in the dark glass.

End

[The 5th Recommended Book] 'To You Waiting for the First Train: Two People on the Platform Waiting for the First Train'

The moment two hearts connect on a station platform before dawn

This is a lyrical story depicting two people exchanging words on a station platform during the brief time before the first train arrives.
Because it is a quiet space where no one else is around yet, honest feelings and hidden thoughts that are usually left unsaid spill out bit by bit. The way the distance between them changes within that limited time, layered with the beautiful scene of the night breaking into dawn, leaves a wonderful lingering impression.

End

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