Easy Come, Easy Go: Episode 5 - The Years of Ash

I never saw her again after that.

It was about the woman at a small French restaurant in Roppongi to whom I had suddenly said, "Half in cash."
The ten-thousand-yen note I received from her rang thin, long, and bitter.

That night, I wrote this in my notebook.

Relationship exists.
Exploitation of self-esteem.
Resistance is weak, but the lingering effect is long.
Bitterness.
Chilled sweetness.
Quieter than direct robbery.
Reproducible.

From that one line, several years began.

I began to convert human relationships into money.
No, that sounds terribly crude when put that way.
In reality, it was much quieter.

Meeting a friend.
Drinking with an old colleague.
Giving advice to an acquaintance.
Having a meal with a woman.
Going to Ginza.
Attending a funeral.
Showing my face at a celebration.

From the outside, these were normal lives. But I always saw money in them.

Who will pay?
Who doesn't want to pay?
Who is pretending to pay?
Who is trying to make someone else pay?
Who is trying to protect that one last bill in the depths of their wallet?

Human relationships were banknotes before they were burned.
At first, I had a little resistance to that fact.
But when you get used to resistance, the sound becomes dull.

Making a woman pay in cash.
Making a friend pay back what I covered for them.
Receiving an envelope as a token of gratitude from someone I gave advice to.
Getting hold of bills returned from a condolence money envelope.
Having a woman who collected on accounts break some of that night's money for me.
Jokingly saying to a man I once helped, "Pay me back a little."

None of it was a crime. At least, that's how it appeared.

Courtesy.
Settlement.
Splitting the bill.
Reciprocation.
Socializing.
Obligation.

There are plenty of elegant words in this world for moving money around.

I learned them all.
No, I probably knew them all along. I just didn't know that they could ring.

Bills from accounts receivable rang well.

In particular, bills that customers paid reluctantly had a sound like a damp string. The woman's smile, the atmosphere of the shop, the waiter's gaze, the madam's silence. Things like that were thinly intertwined with the paper's fibers.

When burned, a smell like an old rag rises from deep within the sweet perfume.
The taste is sweet.
But there is lead at the bottom.

Condolence money bills were different.
They don't ring. At least, that's what I thought at first.
Even when you set them on fire, they make almost no sound. The paper burns normally. It shrinks black. It turns to ash. But no melody rises up.

Instead, your tongue goes cold.

The scent of dried chrysanthemums.
The sleeves of black clothes.
Sitting formally on the tatami mats.
The voices of relatives, none of whom speak their true feelings.
The smoke of incense.
Money offered for someone who will never return.

The bills of condolence money do not ring. But they are watching me.

The bills of celebratory money were unexpectedly light.

Bright.
Thin.
Sweet.
But they vanish quickly.

Money given by people for the sake of joy is surprisingly dull. When vanity or jealousy is mixed in, it rings just a little. Heartfelt celebration is surprisingly transparent, and when burned, almost nothing remains.

I was a little disappointed.
Human goodwill is not suited for music.
What always rings well is something else entirely.

Regret.
Hesitation.
Lingering attachment.
Shame.
Vanity.
Resignation.
Feelings that could not be returned.
Words that were never spoken.

Those are the things that soak into the paper.

I burn them. I burn them, and I listen. I smell. I taste.

There is one bill I remember well, just once.

It was a bill from a man who used to be a customer of Mama Kaoru.

That night, I was sitting in my usual seat.

The club wasn't crowded yet. In Ginza during the early hours, there is a strange void where the preparations are finished but the main event hasn't yet begun. The women adjust their smiles, the waiters move without making a sound, and in the empty seats, only the faint presence of money yet to be spent remains.

There was a small presence near the entrance.

Mama Kaoru was talking to someone.

At first, I didn't pay it any mind.

It is common for Mama to talk to customers at the entrance of the club. Confirming reservations. Greetings after a long time. Whether there are seats available. Such exchanges are part of the club's atmosphere.

But that night, Mama Kaoru was just a little different. There was something off about the angle of her spine.
Her face was smiling. But deep behind that smile, there was a feeling like turning over a single old sheet of paper.

I set down my glass.

Standing at the entrance was a thin man.

His hair was short, and the shoulders of his suit didn't quite fit. It wasn't new. It was a suit that looked as if he had forced himself back into something he used to wear a long time ago.

The man was bowing deeply to Mama Kaoru. Customers do bow to Mama, but there are different kinds of bows.

A bow before spending money.
A bow when asking for a favor.
A bow of apology.
A bow of farewell.

The man's bow was closest to the last one.

I stood up.
I pretended to go to the restroom.
The shop's restroom is near the entrance, so it didn't look unnatural. I walked slowly. There was no need to rush. When approaching prey, one must never rush.

Mama Kaoru looked over at me.

Our eyes met.

For just a fleeting moment, it looked as if her eyes were saying, 'Don't come over here.'

So, I approached.

Are you an acquaintance of his?
I said, in a voice that sounded like I had just happened to pass by.

Mama Kaoru was silent for a moment.
The man looked at me.
He had a polite face. A face that was too polite.
A customer from a long time ago.
Mama Kaoru said.

It's been a long time.
The man bowed to me as well.

No, the pleasure is mine.
I smiled.

The phrase 'the pleasure is mine' is convenient because it sounds like you've replied to something, even when you haven't actually said anything.

The man turned back to Mama Kaoru.
I just came to say hello today. I don't think I'll be coming to places like this anymore.

His voice was quiet. But it was too quiet.
A voice that is too quiet is usually filled with something.

Mama Kaoru said nothing. She didn't even tell him to sit down.
A woman of Ginza is kind. That is why, at times, she chooses not to be.

I looked at the man's hands. I saw a thin wallet.

Black leather. Worn out. It wasn't a designer brand. It was a wallet that looked less like it had grown comfortable in his hand and more like he was using it simply because it was the only thing he had left.

The man's fingers were touching the edge of that wallet.
He wants to go home.
But he doesn't know how to leave.

At that moment, I became interested in the man.

Since you're here,
I said.
The man looked at me.
Won't you have just one drink?

No, not today.

At my table,
I looked at Mama Kaoru.
You don't mind, do you?

Mama Kaoru moved her eyebrows just a fraction.
I couldn't tell if it was a rejection or resignation.

Since I'm the one who invited you, it's on me,
A flicker of relief appeared on the man's face.

Ah.

The moment I saw that face, I felt my throat go dry.

It was the face of someone who had been saved.

When a person looks like they've been saved, the bills they pull out afterward ring loud.
The man hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
If it's just one drink.

Just one drink,
I said.

Mama Kaoru said nothing and signaled to the waiter.

We moved to the table.
My table.
The usual one at the back of the bar.

Before sitting down, the man bowed to Mama Kaoru one more time. Then, he sat in the chair a bit awkwardly. He must have sat more naturally in the past.

That's what I thought.

When people return to a place they've lost, they even forget how to sit in a chair.

The drinks were brought over.
It wasn't expensive liquor.
Mama Kaoru must have chosen it.
Perhaps it was an act of kindness.
Even so, kindness in Ginza comes with a price tag.

Did you come here often in the past?
I asked.

Yes. A little,
the man replied.

The word 'a little' was a lie. Customers who only come 'a little' don't return like this.

You've known Mama Kaoru for a long time, haven't you?

Before it got long, there were various things that happened.
The man laughed. The way he laughed wasn't really a laugh.
It was a lid he used to put an end to his own story right there.

I wanted to lift that lid just a little bit.
Was it a woman?

The man's hand stopped, and the ice in his glass clinked softly.
Mama Kaoru looked over at us from a little distance away.

The man remained silent for a while.

Then, he said in a low voice.
Well, I suppose so.

Someone from this bar?

No.
The man shook his head.

Not here.
That was enough.

A woman who used to be at another bar. A woman who had slowly dissolved his money, his vanity, and his future into the night.

Someone once said that woman was like a witch. I heard that from Mama Kaoru later.

A witch.

A convenient word. A word men use when they want to transform their own foolishness into the power of a woman.

Do you still want to see her?
I asked.

The man smiled just a little.
What would I do if I saw her?

I don't know.

There's nothing left to apologize for, and nothing left to be angry about.

Then, what did you come here for today?

The man looked at his glass.
I think I came to erase my footprints.

I remembered those words.

Footprints.

The words you speak yourself eventually come back to you.

The man drank his glass slowly. I thought he couldn't drink it quickly. Perhaps his tolerance for alcohol had weakened.
Or perhaps it was because once he finished that glass, he would truly have to go home.

Conversation was sparse. That was fine.
When you let people talk too much, their flavor thins out. What remains in the silence rings truer.

Before long, the waiter placed a black leather bill folder on the table.

Payment is handled at the table.
In Ginza, money moves quietly, too.
I opened the bill and placed my card down without a word.

The man looked up.
No, that's...

I invited you,
I said.
Let me handle this.

The man started to open his mouth. Then he closed it.
Relief appeared on his face again. Just a little bit.

It was in that moment.
Before the bills could ring, the man's vanity rang out.
I heard it.

It was a thin sound.
Even though he hadn't lit it yet, the sound had already begun.

The waiter took the card and stepped away.
A brief silence remained on the table.
I traced the rim of my glass with my finger.
But...

The man looked at me.

Are you really sure I should be the one to pay?

The man's expression froze.
Kaoru-mama's gaze turned toward us from a little further away.

Coming all this way,I said.are you going to leave without leaving anything behind?Wouldn't it be alright to leave a footprint, if only for the last drink?

Footprints.

That was the word the man had used himself earlier.
So he couldn't escape it.
I had simply returned his own words to him.
The man took out a thin wallet and opened it slowly.

Inside, there was one ten-thousand-yen bill and a few thousand-yen bills.

The thousand-yen bills alone were not enough.
No, it wasn't about whether it was enough or not.
The man himself had decided that it wasn't enough.

The night I returned to Ginza.
The night I bowed my head to the old mama-san.
The night I let someone else hear a little bit about the woman who was like a witch.

At the end of that night, the old version of the man inside him wouldn't allow him to just pull out a few thousand-yen bills and call it a day.

His fingers touched a ten-thousand-yen bill. They stopped. He didn't want to take it out.

I understood.
That ten-thousand-yen bill contained his tomorrow.

It might have been his train fare home.
It might have been money for a cheap room.
It might have been money to go to the government office.
It might have been money to meet someone.

I don't know what he intended to use it for.

But that bill, and that bill alone, was still the future to him.

The man pulled it out. After pulling it out, he started to put it back in his wallet once.

He couldn't put it back.

"It's not much," the man said.

And then, he held that ten-thousand-yen bill out to me.
Not to the shop.
Not to Kaoru-mama.

To me.

The paper moved from the man's hand to mine.
At that moment, the back of my throat went dry.
The bill wasn't burning yet. But it was definitely ringing.
With a very thin, very dry sound.

"Thank you very much."
I said.

Words of gratitude are convenient. They make what you've received look legitimate.

The man smiled just a little.

That smile was lighter than it had been a moment ago. It was the face of a man who had paid for something.
Or perhaps, it was the face of a man who didn't yet understand that he had lost something.

The waiter returned the card. I signed the bill.

During that time, the man kept looking at the bottom of his glass.

Eventually, he stood up and bowed his head to Kaoru-mama once more.
"Thank you very much."

Mama Kaoru nodded with her usual expression.
"Take care of yourself."

It was a kind word. But kind words, when they come too late, become cruel.

Mama Kaoru saw the man out to the street.

The shop door closed, and a little bit of the cold outside air drifted in.

I remained in my seat, pressing the ten-thousand-yen bill inside my inner pocket.

Paper is light.

And yet, that one spot felt heavy.

After a while, Mama Kaoru returned, bringing a faint scent of the outside air with her.

"He walked away."

She said. It was something she didn't need to say. That's why I think she said it.

"He didn't head toward the station. He didn't hail a taxi, either."

I didn't answer.

"I wonder where he's going."
Mama Kaoru said.

I didn't know.
Was it because he had no money?
Was it because he had nowhere to go?
I don't know that.
Even if I didn't know, the bill rang.

Mama Kaoru looked at me.

"You have bad taste."
"I know."
"Since when?"
"Recently."

Mama Kaoru didn't laugh.
"You're starting to look like the teacher."

At those words, the ice in my glass clinked softly, and I tucked the ten-thousand-yen bill I had received into my inner pocket.
I tucked the ten-thousand-yen bill I had received into my inner pocket.

The paper was surprisingly light.

That night, after I got home, I burned it.

I do not turn on the room lights. I close the curtains, place a ceramic plate on the table, and turn on the ventilation fan.

I take a ten-thousand-yen bill out, not from my wallet, but from my inner pocket.

Even before I lit it, the bill was trembling faintly.
It lacked the intensity of the bill I took on that rainy night.
It was also different from the cold sweetness of the bill I received from her.

The bill was dry. It rang like a dry thread.

The scent was cheap soap.
Then, an old blanket.
Not tatami, but a harder floor.
Water in a paper cup.
The sweetness of candy given by someone.
A letter tucked away without ever being opened.

And for a fleeting moment, the perfume of a witch-like woman mingled in.

The taste was iron.

Old iron.
Then, a piece of candy that had lost its sugar.
Finally, just a hint of the taste of vanity.
The man wasn't paying for a drink. He wanted to prove that he was still a man who could afford a drink in Ginza.

I accepted that proof.

And I burned it.

I didn't think it was pathetic. I didn't feel sorry for him. I just thought it was a bill that rang true.

I wrote in my notebook.

Ginza.
Kaoru Mama's old customer.
Returnee.
Woman from another bar.
Lingering scent of a witch.
The last drink.
Footprints.
Exploiting pride.
Tomorrow's money.
Dry iron.
Long aftertaste.

I wrote that much, then stopped my pen.

Footprints.

The man said he came to erase his footprints. But I made that man leave footprints. And then, I burned those footprints.

I went to the washroom and washed my hands over and over.
I used soap and washed even between my fingers.

I wiped them with a towel. I smelled my hands once more.
They still smelled of cheap soap.

It wasn't the scent I smelled at the bar. It wasn't the scent of the soap I used, either. It was the scent that had risen from that man's bill.

It won't go away.

Things like that, even when they seemed to have vanished, began to pile up inside me little by little.

Before I knew it, my appetite had diminished.

When I ate meat, the fat felt heavy.
When I ate sushi, the sweetness of the rice felt distant.
When I drank wine, the aroma felt flat.
Chocolate was too sweet.
Coffee was too bitter.
Only water was still drinkable.

I thought it was just my age.

Once you pass forty, everyone's appetite diminishes a little. You can't handle your liquor as well. Your body doesn't feel as light. That's just how it is.

In fact, when I went to the doctor, there was nothing particularly wrong with me.

"You've lost a little weight," the doctor said.

"Perhaps your food intake has dropped. You don't need to force yourself to eat, but please make sure you get your nutrients."
I nodded. That was all.

My gray hairs increased, too.

At first, it was only at my temples. Eventually, they began to mix into my bangs. Every time I looked in the mirror, I felt like a different man was standing there.

I've aged.

That's what I thought. That was all.

I didn't think I was consuming people.
To say I was consuming people is an exaggeration.
I haven't killed anyone.
I haven't eaten anyone's flesh, either.
I just set fire to banknotes.
Those banknotes just happened to have absorbed people's regrets, shame, and confusion.

I only listened to it. I only smelled it. I only tasted it.

But what you taste remains somewhere in your body. I was still pretending not to know that.

My sensuality was fading, too.

In the past, I would react to the way a woman laughed, the movement of her fingers, or the angle of her wrist as she held a glass.

The women of Ginza are well-trained.

They don't laugh too much.
They don't touch too much.
They don't distance themselves too much.
They maintain a distance that makes a man feel like he approached them on his own.

I liked that distance.

However, at some point, I started looking more at the bills the women received than at their skin. More than the necklace shining on their chest, I looked at the envelope the hostess tucked away after the bill was paid.
More than perfume, I looked at the ten-thousand-yen bill pulled from the depths of a wallet.
More than a smile, I looked at the slight flicker in their eyes when they were told the balance of their tab.
I wasn't looking at the women. I was looking at the money moving through them.

I think Kaoru-mama noticed that.

One night, she sat down across from me and lit my cigarette.
"You haven't been drinking much lately."
"Maybe it's my age."
"You haven't been eating much, either."
"My doctor told me the same thing."
"And you don't call for the girls much anymore."
"I find it more relaxing when it's quiet."

Kaoru-mama watched me for a while. Her eyes weren't accusing. She was simply measuring something.

"You're like the Professor."

At those words, the ice in my glass clinked softly.

"The Professor?"
"The one who used to come here. The one with the white hair."
"Ah."

I smiled.

"I'm not as sophisticated as he was."
"That's not what I meant."

I exhaled a thin stream of smoke.

"We've started looking at the same things."
"What are you looking at?"
"Things that aren't people."

I didn't answer. Kaoru-mama didn't say anything more, either.

A woman in Ginza knows the boundary between when to step in and when not to. Knowing when not to step in is also part of the job.

Around that time, I started being shown to a seat at the back of the club.

At first, I thought it was a coincidence.

A night when it wasn't crowded.
Reservation logistics.
The flow of customers.
A seat that just happened to be empty.

But no matter how many times I went, it was always the same seat.

The back of the club.

A little ways from the entrance, where I could see the entire club. Conversations from the next table reached me just right, and my own voice was unlikely to leak out. I could clearly see the movements of the women, the waiters' gazes, the mama's position, and how the customers opened their wallets.

It was a good seat.

In a Ginza club, even the seating has meaning.

Seats for noisy customers.
Seats for customers you want to spend money.
Seats for customers you want to show off.
Seats for customers you want to hide.
Seats for customers you want to keep comfortable for a long time.

I had been guided to that last type of seat.

For the club, it was only natural.

I paid well.
I didn't make unreasonable demands.
I didn't mistreat the girls.
I didn't get dead drunk.
I didn't ruin the atmosphere of the club.
I occasionally ordered expensive liquor, and my payments were always clean.

A top-tier customer.

I had become the kind of customer they called that. It wasn't a bad thing. Rather, I thought I had aged well.

One night, a young woman said to me as I sat down.

"This seat is so relaxing, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"It just feels like you're a teacher, somehow."

There was no malice in the way she said it.

It was just a bit of convenient respect that girls in clubs show to older customers.

Even so, a sweetness like an old candy returned to the back of my tongue.

Teacher.

I had been called that before. Women in the service industry wrap men in various titles. President, Teacher, Master, Big Brother. Each one is just a soft piece of paper used to smooth over the relationship of the moment.

But that night, the word "Teacher" sounded a little different.

I looked out at the floor from the back of the club.
The women were laughing.
The men were posturing.
Ice clinked in glasses.
Bills were moving.
There were still many bills that hadn't been burned yet.

Bills that had been bent in the depths of wallets, soaked in sweat, and passed through lies, rent, funeral offerings, and women's fingers.

Bills that I hadn't wanted to part with.

The bills being brought out now.

The bills being put away without being used.

I was watching them. And then, I suddenly realized.

It was this seat.

That night, this is where the white-haired teacher was sitting. This is where he was watching me from, two seats over.
That night, when I burned new bills in front of the women and laughed triumphantly, the teacher was sitting right here.

I finally realized that fact.
Kaoru-mama was watching me from a little further away.

Our eyes met. She said nothing.

She just tucked her chin in ever so slightly. It was a gesture that could have been a greeting, a confirmation, or a silent bow.

I lifted my glass.

I didn't intend to drink. I just wanted to hold something in my hand.

The ice clinked softly.

That sound was a little like the low string of the ten-thousand-yen bill I had burned long ago.

I laughed.
I didn't intend to laugh. But I was laughing.
And deep within that laughter, something cold moved just a little.

That night, the teacher was watching me.

Watching me as I burned new bills in front of the women, laughing triumphantly, knowing nothing. Watching me as I thought I was burning money, while hearing nothing at all.

The teacher was watching.

With eyes that looked at things other than people. With ears that listened for sounds that had not yet rung out. How did I look to the teacher back then?

Not as a bill in a wallet.

But as myself.

As a single sheet of paper, soaking up people's regrets and shame, touching money, seeing women's smiles, and slowly drying out.

The master did not just teach me the etiquette.

Perhaps he was waiting for the day I would sit in this seat.

No.

To say he was waiting is not quite right either. The master knew. He knew that a man like me would eventually come and sit here of his own accord.

Without being ordered by anyone. Without being dragged by anyone. I would come to the master's seat on my own two feet. And then, I would find it comfortable.

A slight chill ran down my spine, but even so, I did not stand up from the seat.

The master's seat was more comfortable than I had imagined. It was as if the chair had been custom-made so that I could never escape.

I looked out at the floor.

Two seats over, a loud man was opening his wallet.

The women were laughing.

The man flicked a ten-thousand-yen bill with his finger.

I stared intently at those fingertips.

Numbers do not ring out.

People do.

And I, too, was a person.