The Briefcase. Hiromi Kawakami

you are an excellent student when it comes to drinking. In Japanese class, on the other hand, your grades were awful . . . ”

      There was a stall that had cats for sale. There were newborn kittens and great big fat cats. A child was pleading with his mother for a cat. It was the mother and child from earlier.

      “We don’t have anywhere to keep a cat,” the mother said.

      “That’s okay, it can be an outdoor cat,” the child replied softly.

      “But do you really think a cat we buy here can survive outside?”

      “It’ll be all right, somehow.” The owner of the cat stall listened in silence to their conversation. Finally, the child pointed at a small, striped tabby. The owner wrapped the tabby in a soft cloth and the mother took it and gently placed it in her shopping basket. The faint sound of the tabby’s mewling could be heard from inside the basket.

      “Tsukiko,” Sensei said suddenly.

      “Yes?”

      “I’m going to buy something too.”

      Sensei approached not the cat stall, but a stall selling chicks.

      “Male and female, one chick each,” Sensei said decisively.

      The proprietor of the stall picked one each from the two separate groups of chicks on either side, and placed each chick into its own little box. “Here you are,” he said as he handed them to Sensei, who took the boxes cautiously. Holding them in his left hand, Sensei pulled his wallet from his pocket with his right hand and gave it to me.

      “Would you mind paying him for me?”

      “Why don’t I hold the boxes?”

      “Ah, yes.”

      Sensei’s panama hat was even more askew now. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, he took out the money to pay. He put his wallet back in his breast pocket and, after a moment’s hesitation, he took off his panama hat.

      Sensei turned his hat upside down. Then he took the chicks’boxes one at a time from my hands and put them inside the upside down hat. Once the boxes were settled, Sensei began walking with the hat carried protectively under his arm.

      WE GOT ON the bus at the Kawasuji-nishi stop. There were fewer people on the bus ride home than on the way there. The market surged again with people who were probably doing their evening shopping.

      “I’ve heard that it’s difficult to tell the difference between a male and a female chick,” I said, and Sensei made a sort of harrumphing sound.

      “Well, I know that much.”

      “Oh.”

      “It doesn’t matter to me whether these chicks are male or female.”

      “I see.”

      “I thought one chick would be lonely on its own.”

      “Really?”

      “Really.”

      Was that so? I wondered as I got off the bus and followed Sensei into our usual bar. “Two bottles of beer,” Sensei ordered right away. “And edamame.” The beer and our glasses came right out.

      “Sensei, shall I pour?” I asked, but he shook his head.

      “No. I’ll pour for you, Tsukiko. And I’ll pour for myself too.” As usual, he wouldn’t let me pour for him.

      “Do you hate it when someone else pours?”

      “I don’t mind if they can do it well, but you aren’t very good at it.”

      “Is that right?”

      “Would you like me to teach you?”

      “That’s not necessary.”

      “You’re a stubborn one.”

      “As are you.”

      There was a stiff head of foam on the beer that Sensei poured for me. “Where will you keep the chicks?” I asked. “Inside the house, for now,” Sensei replied. I could barely hear the sound of the chicks moving inside the box, inside the hat. “Do you like having pets?” I asked. Sensei shook his head.

      “I don’t think it’s my forte.”

      “Will you be able to handle them?”

      “Chicks aren’t very cute, are they?”

      “Is it better if they aren’t cute?”

      “That way I won’t become obsessive.”

      There was a rustling sound as the chicks moved again. Sensei’s glass was empty, so I replenished it. He did not refuse. “A little more foam. That’s right.” He talked me through the technique as he serenely accepted the beer I poured for him.

      “Soon you’ll have to let those chicks out somewhere in the open,” I said. That night we drank only beer. We had edamame, grilled eggplant, and octopus marinated in wasabi. After we finished eating, we split the check right down the middle.

      When we came out of the bar, it was almost dark. I wondered if the mother and child from the market had finished their dinner already. I wondered if the cat was still mewling. There was only a hint of a glow lingering in the western sky.

       Twenty-two Stars

      SENSEI AND I aren’t speaking.

      It’s not that I haven’t seen him. I often run into him at our usual bar, but we don’t speak. We glance at each other out of the corner of one eye, and then we simply pretend we are strangers. I pretend, and Sensei pretends as well.

      It has been going on since about the time when the bar started serving “Stew of the day” as a special, so it must be almost a month by now. Even when we sit next to each other at the counter, we don’t say a word.

      IT ALL STARTED with the radio.

      The broadcast of the baseball game was on. They were leading up to the final game of the pennant race. It was unusual for the radio to be on in the bar, and I was sitting with my elbows resting on the counter, idly listening to the game while drinking warm saké.

      Before long, the door opened and Sensei came in. He took the seat next to me and asked the bar owner, “ What ’s in the stew?” There were several dented individual-sized aluminum pots piled up on the cupboard.

      “Cod stew today.”

      “That sounds good.”

      “So, would you like the stew then?” the bar owner asked, but Sensei shook his head.

      “I’ll have salted sea urchin.”

      He certainly is unpredictable, I thought to myself as I listened to their exchange. The first-at-bat team’s third batter got an extra base hit, and the sound of cheering and the fife- and drum-playing grew louder on the radio.

      “Tsukiko, which is your favorite team?”

      “None in particular,” I replied, filling my cup with warm saké. Everyone in the bar was listening to the radio ardently.

      “Obviously, it’s the Giants for me,” Sensei said, draining his beer in one gulp and switching to saké. He spoke—how can I put it?—with more passion than usual. I wondered about this passion.

      “Obviously?”

      “Yes, obviously.”

      The game on the broadcast was the Yomiuri Giants versus the Hanshin Tigers. I don’t have a favorite team, but to tell the truth, I hate the Giants. I used to openly proclaim myself “anti-Giants.” But one time, someone pointed out that being “anti-Giants” was really just a backward strategy for those who were so stubborn they couldn’t bring themselves to say that they