Free Ghostwritten by David Mitchell Page B

Koji thought we were a bit obvious.’
    ‘Don’t worry about it. And hey! Dad even implied, in his roundabout way, you could visit during your holidays. He might manage to find a bar for you to play sax in, if you wanted to.’
    ‘Does he know? About us?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Takeshi doesn’t exactly give me holidays . . . At least, I’ve never asked for one.’
    ‘Oh . . .’ She changed the subject. ‘How long did it take you to get so good?’
    ‘I’m not good. John Coltrane is good ! Wait a sec—’ I grabbed a copy of John Coltrane and Duke Ellington, playing ‘In a Sentimental Mood’. Smoky and genuflective. We listened to it together for a while. So many things I wanted to say to her.
    There was a series of urgent rings. ‘I’m running of out money – there’s something – Oh, damn, ’Bye!’
    ‘’Bye!’
    ‘When I get back I’ll—’
    A lonely hum.

    At lunchtime Mr Fujimoto came in, saw me, and laughed. ‘Good afternoon, Satoru-kun!’ he jubilated. ‘Blue skies, just you wait and see! Tell me, what do you think of this little beaut?’ He put a little package of books on the counter, and straightened out his bow tie, arching his eyebrows and acting proud.
    A grotesque polka-dot frog-green bow tie. ‘Absolutely unique.’
    His whole body wobbled with mirth. ‘We’re having a disgusting tie competition in the office. I’ve got ’em licked, I think.’
    ‘How was Kyoto?’
    ‘Oh, Kyoto was Kyoto. Temples and shrines, meetings with printers. Uppity shopkeepers who think they have a monopoly on manners. It’s good to be back. Once a Tokyoite, always a Tokyoite.’
    I started my rehearsed speech. ‘Mr Fujimoto, when I told Mama-san about your kind offer to help me get an interview at your office she gave me this to give you. She thought you and your co-workers might enjoy it at a cherry-blossom party.’ I heaved the huge bottle of rice-wine onto the counter.
    ‘ Sake! My word, that is a big boy! This will last awhile, even in an office full of publishers! How extraordinarily kind.’
    ‘No, it was kind of you. I’m sorry I’m too ignorant to accept your generous offer.’
    ‘Not at all, not at all. No umbrage taken, I promise you . . . It was just a passing . . .’ Mr Fujimoto looked for the right word, blinking hard, and laughed when he couldn’t find it. ‘I don’t blame you in the least. You wouldn’t want to end up being like me, would you?’ He found that a lot funnier than I did.
    ‘It’s not my place to say this, but I wouldn’t mind ending up being like you at all. You’ve got a good job. Unforgettable bow ties. A great taste in the world’s finest jazz discs.’
    He stopped smiling for once and gazed out. ‘The last of the cherry blossom. On the tree, it turns ever more perfect. And when it’s perfect, it falls. And then of course once it hits the ground it gets all mushed up. So it’s only absolutely perfect when it’s falling through the air, this way and that, for the briefest time . . . I think that only we Japanese can really understand that, don’t you?’
    A van roaring the message Vote for Shimizu, the only candidate who really has the guts to fight corruption screeched past like a drunken batmobile. Shimizu never betrays, Shimizu never betrays, Shimizu never betrays.
    Mr Fujimoto trailed his fingers through the air. ‘Why do things happen the way they do? Since the gas attack on the subway, watching those pictures on TV, watching the police investigate like a crack squad of blind tortoises, I’ve been trying to understand . . . Why do things happen at all? What is it that stops the world simply . . . seizing up?’
    I’m never sure whether Mr Fujimoto’s questions are questions. ‘Do you know?’
    He shrugged. ‘I don’t know the answer, no. Sometimes I think it’s the only question, and that all other questions are tributaries that flow into it.’ He ran his hand through his thinning hair. ‘Might the answer be