Chapter 4 Grandma’s Secret Umeboshi #3
“H15? Like year fifteen of the Heisei era? That’s 2003!” I said.
“She started this notebook a long time ago.”
I could now see how old it was. The edge of the pages had browned. A tiny silverfish crawled across the page, just above the word “karaage.”
“There’s something on the other side.”
I suddenly noticed a small bump on the other side of the page with the karaage recipe. Turning the page, I found the same strip of paper we saw earlier on the dining table.
“What do you call these again, Hozumi?”
“Slips. We call them sales slips.”
For some reason, the piece of paper was neatly taped to the page. The book title on the slip was Junior High School English Vocabulary (Advanced).
She had kept it safely tucked away in her notebook. But why?
“Was she studying English or something?” I pondered.
“Hang on,” Hozumi said, and reached his hand out, lifting up the upper corner of the slip.
My heart skipped a beat.
Something was written on the back in thick black marker.
Dear Matsuko
Thank you for lunch
Your delicious karaage brightened my day
Thank you, as always
Yours sincerely
Yasunari
I covered my mouth with my hand reflexively.
“Oh my God. It’s a love letter.”
There was no doubt the message inside the narrow piece of paper was a letter from Kimura to Matsuko. His penmanship was even neater than Matsuko’s.
She had also written a note on the page.
Iori, putting his glasses back on, read the words out loud.
“Let’s see. ‘It was chilly today, so I made karaage, Yasunari’s favorite. Pleased to hear that it brightened his day. The children loved it also. Thank you, my dearest Yasunari.’ ”
“Such a nice couple,” Hozumi said.
“Yeah. Look at all the other pages—they all have slips taped to them. Who knew Kimura was such a romantic, right, Momo-chan? Wait, Momo-chan, are you…”
“You’re crying already?” Hozumi interjected.
“I can’t help it!”
I tilted my head back so as not to ruin the notebook with my dripping tears and mucus.
Stop making me cry, Kimura!
Going through the notebook, we realized that the slips were taped to a compilation of Kimura’s favorite recipes.
It became clear that the division of labor worked like this: Kimura took responsibility of running the bookselling business, while Matsuko was in charge of running the household and raising the children.
With their lives being so busy, the couple probably didn’t get much chance to have a proper conversation with each other.
I imagined Kimura returning his empty lunch box to the kitchen at the end of each long day, leaving with it a message written on the back of a slip just for Matsuko’s eyes.
Matsuko had kept every message. The ones she didn’t manage to put in her notebook were tucked away in bundles inside the stool.
I turned to the very last page of the notebook, and there it was.
“It’s here. We found it!”
“Finally,” Iori said.
“This was probably the most challenging request we took on as the Funeral Committee,” Hozumi added.
“We haven’t finished yet! We now have to make the umeboshi!” I said.
How are you, Grandma? How are things in heaven?
It’s Friday, July 29th. It’s a beautiful sunny day in Tokyo.
The sky is so blue that it’s almost unreal.
If I were to make a painting of it and submit it to an art competition, the judge would probably make a sneering comment like “The colors of the sky are more complex than this.” It’s absolutely scorching, but it’s the perfect weather for sun-drying the umeboshi outside.
I couldn’t have asked for a better day for it.
It’s been one month since we visited Kimura’s house.
I had no idea how arduous umeboshi-making is!
As you probably know, I had to pickle the plums with salt first, then with red shiso leaves.
I then laid them out on strainers made of bamboo and took them to the rooftop of Amayadori’s building, leaving them to sun-dry.
When it was time to turn them over, Iori and Hozumi came out to help.
It was so much fun (except for the part where Hozumi’s scalp got red from the sun).
Today is the final day. When we bring the umeboshi inside tonight, they should be ready. I can’t wait. I think Kimura can finally be at peace.
I wish you could have some, too, Grandma.
Actually, it would’ve been nice if you had been here to help me make them.
In fact, I’d love to hire you, Grandma.
You worked so fast, you would have been a great help. If you were here, I’m sure you would have had all these orders ready in no time.
I’ll tell you what, Grandma, why don’t you send your résumé to Amayadori from heaven and—
“—chan! Are you listening? Momo-chan! Another plate of curry and a cheesy hamburger steak, please. And the customer wants potato salad with their curry. Hello? Can you hear me? Momo-chan. Momoko-san. Momoko Yuuki!”
Iori stood in front of me, wearing a worried expression. The café was absolutely packed—all the tables and every seat at the counter were occupied. A never-ending line of customers had formed outside the window.
Iori clapped his palms together in my face. Smack.
“Are you all right, Momo-chan? You don’t have heatstroke, do you?”
Reflexively, Iori tried to feel my forehead with his palm, and I snapped back to my senses.
I’ve had no time to use blotting paper on my face today. If I let Iori touch my greasy forehead, a part of me will die.
“I’m sorry, Iori. I’m fine! It’s just been so busy. I got lost daydreaming.”
I turned my head away from him just in time and got started on the curry order.
I need to regain my sanity.
I’d been working nonstop since the morning. The inside of my T-shirt was damp with sweat, but I couldn’t even find the time to get changed. Considering how empty this place was six months ago, it was a nice problem to have. I just had to focus on getting through the busy hours.
“I don’t blame you. I never imagined we’d get so popular.”
Opening the fridge door, Iori promptly filled two glasses with ice.
Amayadori was having its busiest day ever.
The café had appeared on television—a comedian visited Amayadori as part of a prime-time variety show featuring hidden spots around the city, and that show had aired the night before.
I was hopeful that it would draw in more customers, but I never imagined so many people would turn up.
I’d asked Hozumi to give us a hand, busing tables and taking orders, and though he agreed to join us later in the evening and on Saturday and Sunday, he couldn’t come any earlier because he had some chanting to do.
Which meant it was going to be just Iori and me for a while.
But hey, we can do this!
“I know it feels like we’re in hell right now,” I said, casting a glance at Iori while flipping over a hamburger patty, “but we’re going to make our biggest total sales today.
And the umeboshi drying outside is almost ready.
We’ll be able to try them in the evening.
I can finally make that onigiri for Kimura.
Today is going to be an amazing day. That glass of beer we’re going to have tonight is going to taste so good! ”
“Only you can say something so positive at a time like this.”
Iori flashed a wary smile as he ladled the soup and dished out the salad for a lunch set order.
“I’m just pre-celebrating that it-was-worth-it feeling we’re going to experience later.”
Iori let out a chuckle. “I like how your mind works. I always have.”
I was flattered and surprised by the compliment.
“Have I said something like this before?”
“Maybe not, but you do always seem to have a turn-lemons-into-lemonade attitude about life.”
“Well, just like in cooking, you need all kinds of flavors in life, even the bitter or astringent ones. Otherwise your repertoire is going to be very limited.” Looking back on my life, I’d always managed to overcome hurdles in this way.
As I opened the rice cooker, I wondered if I had sounded like I was trying to act cool, and felt a wave of embarrassment.
But the tide of customers showed no sign of receding, and I couldn’t dwell on it. We would need to use the ingredients stocked up for the weekend, but that should just about cover it, I calculated in my head. My hands were moving on autopilot.
“Oh, Momo-chan?” Iori uttered, as if he’d just remembered something. He placed empty glasses and dishes in the sink. “Didn’t Hozumi say something about it always raining on days we have the Funeral Committee meetings?”
I was about to sprinkle cheese over the hamburger steak, but my hand stopped short.
“D-don’t say that. You’re going to jinx it.”
“Well, it’s kind of true, isn’t it? It always rains.”
No. No, no, no.
But he was right. On the days we had the Funeral Committee meetings, it rained at least once during the day. It was as though the gods were expected to hit some sort of quota, and they were going out of their way to make sure we got some form of rain, whether it was a downpour or a bit of drizzle.
“The umeboshi on the rooftop will be ruined if they get wet, won’t they?” he worried.
In umeboshi-making, there is a custom known as doyo-boshi, the airing out of umeboshi during the period of “summer doyo,” which starts around July 20th and ends around August 6th every year.
It is said that this is the best time for it, as drying the plums under the hot sun after the humidity of the rainy season has passed is the key to making the most delicious and storable umeboshi.
In one of her notes, Matsuko had written with heavy pressure, Oh, dear, I’m running behind this year.
Must have them dried before the end of July! !
I had planned on putting the plums outside as soon as we entered the doyo period, but oddly, the sky remained cloudy, and on some days it even sprinkled. There hadn’t been a single day that I could call sunny until three days ago, when I was finally able to place the plums outside.