Ogikubo Izakaya "Sugi no Ki" ~The Defeated's Revenge Score~ - The noren of Sugi no Ki

October tenth. The morning of the Tokyo Olympics opening ceremony. The alley of Ogikubo was still asleep. Sugiyama Seiichi stepped out through the back door and drew the cold air into his chest. Forty-seven years of lungs, and the dry October morning seeped in. An old scar on his ribs made a faint protest, but it was nothing serious. He was used to this pain by now. In the mailbox, there was a folded piece of paper. A telegram. From Ando. The message was brief, written in businesslike Japanese. A joint operation involving Japan's public security and allied nations had moved against the secret base of the New Liberty Council in Canada's Yukon Territory—and as a result, the liberation of Elsa Mueller had been confirmed. However, Elsa's current location was unknown. Her health status remained unconfirmed. Seiichi read the telegram twice. Then he folded it and placed it in his breast pocket. His hands preparing the stock paused, just once. Jack had endured. Three fingers broken, all his nails torn out, and he never spoke. The thread of information that man had protected with his life had ultimately moved in the direction of saving one human being. Seiichi processed that fact silently. There wasn't enough material to be happy about. He couldn't confirm whether Elsa was truly safe, whether she was heading to Tokyo, nothing at all. Something loosened in his chest, then hardened again. Seiichi put the stock on the fire. ＊ Past noon, a figure appeared beyond the noren curtain. Sugi no Ki was still before opening hours. Seiichi stopped his hand wiping the counter and waited for the figure to pass through the noren. It was Mueller Heinrich. His white hair with streaks of gray was neatly combed back, black gloves on his hands holding a leather travel bag. Sharp gray eyes with an upward slant surveyed the dim interior of the shop quietly. October light fell on the war scar on his left ear, casting a thin shadow. A travel bag. He had vacated his temporary lodging in Azabu this morning. No words were needed. The old man slowly lowered himself onto the chair at the end of the counter. Only his spine remained straight. No matter how tired, this man never bent his back. Seiichi saw that now, belatedly. Seiichi took the telegram from his breast pocket and placed it on the counter. "Liberation has been confirmed. However, Elsa's current location and condition remain unknown." Heinrich did not look at the telegram. He looked quietly at Seiichi's face. A long silence flowed. From outside the shop, the sound of a radio leaked faintly. The opening ceremony broadcast was playing somewhere. The announcer's excited voice thinly colored the air of the alley. Seiichi silently poured a cup of sake. Not the shop's finest, but not poor either. He placed it before the old man, chilled. Heinrich cupped the cup in both hands. Both hands still gloved, he held it quietly. Those hands trembled slightly. "...Elsa is alive." It was barely a voice. A small word wrung from deep in his throat. There were no words of thanks. No apologies. That was the kind of man Heinrich was. Seiichi didn't ask for them either. Over these two months, they had come to understand such things about each other. Seiichi stood on the counter side and looked at the old man's profile for a moment. A man nearly seventy, cupping a single cup in both hands. A man who had held his breath for twenty years in a corner of postwar Tokyo, living only for his daughter, now for the first time seemed to have set down a small burden. "If Elsa comes to Tokyo, bring her here." That was all he said. Heinrich slowly drained the cup. Then he stood, took the travel bag in hand, and bowed deeply once. A deep bow without words. Seiichi watched his back disappear through the noren in silence. Now he understood why Jack had trusted that man. He didn't speak thanks. He didn't speak apologies. He simply did what needed to be done and bowed. That was all the man was. Seiichi took the empty cup and lightly wiped the counter. ＊ Before opening in the evening, the sound of radios began to spread through the Ogikubo shopping street. The opening ceremony was beginning at the National Stadium—twenty-five minutes by train from Shinjuku, the seventy-two thousand capacity stadium at Kasumigaoka—. The announcer's voice flowed into the alley. Cheers rose from somewhere in the shopping street, then fell silent. Perhaps it was the moment the Olympic flame was lit. Seiichi hung out the noren. He entered the shop and turned on the counter light. Then, glancing at the seat at the end. The seat where O'Brien John had always sat. The seat where he came all the way from the used bookstore a twelve-minute walk from the east exit of Shinjuku Station, tilting a cup of shochu with that blunt face. The seat where muddy eyes sometimes glinted behind glasses, reluctantly speaking of something. Seiichi placed a single cup, upside down, before that seat. Not a drink for the dead. Simply, he wanted to give form, just for tonight, to the fact that someone had occupied that seat. That was all. Regular customers began passing through the noren one by one. A factory worker came in, speaking excitedly about the opening ceremony. An old man next to him answered that he'd only heard it on the radio. Seiichi poured sake as always and served oden on plates. It was a lively night. The air of a festival night, buoyant and festive, filled the shop. Yet no one touched the upside-down cup before Jack's seat. Even when customers lined the counter, somehow no one chose that single seat. Whether by chance or sensing something, Seiichi couldn't say. Until closing, the cup remained upside down. Late at night, after the last customer left, Seiichi picked up the cup alone. He turned it right-side up and placed it in the wash area. That was all. Not a grand gesture. A quiet action on a quiet night. The memorial for Jack was finished. ＊ Shortly after opening, Misako came. She must have walked from the front of Hanayoshi after finishing repairs, her natural perm of brown hair slightly tousled by the evening wind. She had removed her apron, but her fingertips bore the color of flower shop work. Sturdy hands, a florist's hands. Today's flowers were sunflowers. Among a bundle of five, one extra sunflower was mixed in. The stem was thick, the petals slightly bent, a simple single bloom. As Misako received the payment for the flowers, she suddenly let her gaze fall to Seiichi's hand. On the back of his left hand, the marks from the other day remained faintly. Nearly healed, but still recognizable. "Today at least, it's fine, isn't it?" There was no explanation of the reason. She didn't say what it was for. She simply said that and pressed the extra bloom into Seiichi's hand. Before Seiichi could ask in return, Misako passed through the noren and left. She didn't look back. Seiichi looked at the sunflower in his hand. The night the flower shop was destroyed, the handkerchief, several mornings—fragments brushed the edge of his mind. This woman didn't give reasons. Her hands moved before words. That seemed to be her way. Seiichi returned to the counter side and placed the sunflower in a small vase. In the remaining October light, the yellow flower stood there quietly. While attending to customers, Seiichi never thought of throwing away that flower. That was everything. ＊ Deep in the night, all the regular customers had gone home. The shop fell silent. No radio sound, no voices from the alley anymore. Seiichi sat alone at the counter and looked at the toolbox on the table. The detective's toolbox from those days. The lid had more scratches. The contents were unchanged. Seiichi opened the box. At the bottom, two photographs. His wife and his young daughter. There had been a time when blood stains clung to them. Now they were dry, just old photographs. He held them in his hand for a long time. The two in the photograph were smiling. A photograph from when they could still smile, from the period of postwar chaos when he had lost them. He couldn't protect them. Then too, he hadn't made it in time. That was an unchanging fact, and it would remain so. But. Seiichi stood and turned toward the wall. On the wall hung several photographs of Tokyo from the 1920s Showa era. The face of Ogikubo in the early postwar period, the appearance of a street recovering from the ashes, remained on old paper. At the end of that row, he drove in a single pushpin. He fixed the photograph of his wife and daughter there. Not hidden away in a drawer, not returned to the toolbox. On the wall. As part of this shop, placed here. The past he couldn't protect, displayed without concealment. It was only that, but Seiichi's hand took some time. He pushed in the pin and let go. The photograph settled on the wall. Beside the Tokyo of the 1920s Showa era, two smiling figures remained. Seiichi looked at that wall for a while. Then, through the gap in the shop door, a piece of paper was slipped in. A telegram. He picked it up and opened it. A second message from Ando. The one-legged operative—the man who was supposed to have been captured—had escaped from a Shinjuku hospital. His whereabouts were unknown again. That was the first report. And the second. Elsa Mueller had been confirmed boarding a ship bound for Haneda. The daughter was coming. But the operative was still somewhere in Tokyo. Seiichi slipped the telegram into the inside of the toolbox lid. Then he closed the box. The detective's toolbox might open again someday. Seiichi didn't deny that premonition. The photograph on the wall stood quietly beside the Tokyo of the 1920s Showa era.

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Episode 7

Name: Ogikubo Izakaya "Sugi no Ki" ~The Defeated's Revenge Score~
Author: Novelia

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