Chapter 7 Pizza for the Rising Star #2
I undid the furoshiki to find a shiny, lacquered jubako. Inside the tiered boxes were long rolls of sushi, each wrapped neatly in Saran Wrap. They looked delicious. Normally, I would have been delighted, but under the circumstances, I found myself sighing.
“…you made a promise to your father. He set a time limit, remember?”
Madame’s words circled uncontrollably in my head, crashing through the walls of my brain. I felt a sense of unease.
Sensing my dismay, Iori tried to reassure me. “Try not to worry so much. We have the Funeral Committee meeting later, so we can ask him about it then.”
I could see that he, too, had to force at least some of his smile.
I tried to find ways to keep my mind distracted for the rest of the afternoon, dusting the pendant lamp and rewriting the signboard outside.
Before I knew it, I had scrubbed down every corner of the café.
Feeling the breeze of late autumn on my face, I swept away the fallen leaves until the ground was spotless.
Still, the unsettling feeling in my heart refused to go away.
I couldn’t help it; I needed to look up who his family was, try to uncover something about this glamorous woman who had graced our café.
As I looked up, the sky was completely overcast, the clouds huddling tightly so as not to let the slightest light break in.
“Hozumi…” I said to myself. I had a feeling that something bad was going to happen.
“It’s only eight o’clock,” Iori said.
“But normally he would already be here, and he’s not answering his phone. I’m going to go see if he’s okay.”
I flung the door open, ignoring Iori’s calls to wait. I couldn’t shake the strange uneasiness I’d felt since the afternoon. My gut told me that I needed to find Hozumi and talk to him and—
“What are you doing here?”
“You sound disappointed.”
Hozumi was standing right in front of me. He seemed rather fine.
Having missed his chance to have his ice cream soda earlier, he requested one as soon as he sat down in his usual seat.
Once it was served to him, he dug his spoon into it as though he didn’t have a care in the world.
Making sure that the melted ice cream wasn’t spilling over the sides, he gingerly pushed his straw through the soda, making a gurgling sound as he sipped.
He appeared to be his usual self. A little relieved, I lowered myself into the seat next to him.
Once he had finished his drink, I seized my chance and held out the jubako wrapped in the purple furoshiki.
“Here.”
“Thanks,” Hozumi said, accepting it without changing his expression.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“I don’t need to. It’s rolled sushi, isn’t it?”
Taken aback, I was at a loss for words. I hadn’t expected him to be able to guess the contents so quickly.
“She never comes to Tokyo without them,” Hozumi quickly added, probably sensing my astonishment. “In fact, I’m happy for you to have them. I’ve been eating these since I was a child.”
“We can all share them later?” I stared at the wrapped jubako that was now in my hands again, desperately searching for my next words.
“Your mother is very nice,” I added awkwardly, as if I were reading off some sort of script written for people who had just met their friend’s parents.
“I really wasn’t expecting any of that. Are you some kind of secret millionaire?” I blurted out.
I thought about how Hozumi had spoken to his own mother so formally and the way she acted as if it was the most natural thing.
Of course, all families are different, I knew that.
Still, there was something about their interaction that felt rather uncanny.
I kept speaking, saying one wrong thing after another instead of asking him all the questions that were running through my mind.
Hozumi stared at me. Then suddenly he said teasingly, “Knowing you, I’m guessing you’ve looked my family up.”
“What? N-no, of course not!”
“She’s lying,” Iori said, carrying a latte in his hand. “She spent the whole afternoon searching. She hardly got any work done.”
He sat down, joining us at the counter.
“You weren’t supposed to say anything, Iori.”
I could feel my face growing red. It was true. I couldn’t settle during my cleaning mania that afternoon, and when Iori said to me, “If you want to know so badly, why don’t you look them up?” I couldn’t resist the temptation.
It turned out that Hozumi was a member of a prestigious political family, the Kurodas—they were what we’d call “local dignitaries.” On the website of the relevant prefectural assembly, I found the name Kosaku Kuroda under the tab listing its members.
A picture of a man with his lips tightly pressed together was featured prominently.
The man had to be Hozumi’s father, they bore such a close resemblance to each other.
The surname of Kosaku’s predecessor was also Kuroda, probably Hozumi’s grandfather.
It seemed certain that the Kuroda family had been serving the constituency for several generations.
Although I didn’t see the name Kazutoyo Kuroda—Hozumi’s older brother—in the list of assembly members, I found some of his social media accounts.
In his profile were the words Secretary to assembly member, Protecting children’s smiles, and Father of three.
His posts mainly consisted of information on local events.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop scrolling…”
When I confessed to him everything I’d researched, Hozumi snickered. “It’s fine. You’re not the type who can resist that sort of juicy gossip.”
“I’m not an animal.”
“You kind of are.”
“Excuse me?”
I felt a little relieved that our usual squabbles had returned.
“Is your older brother your only sibling?” I asked.
“Yes, we’re a family of four. My grandparents used to live with us, but they passed away a long time ago. I believe my older brother and his family—his wife and children—are now living there with my parents. It’s a pretty common setup for politicians.”
“I’ve heard some stories about politicians,” Iori said. “Is it true that they have a funeral to attend almost every week?”
“Seriously? A funeral every week?” I said.
“Well…I wouldn’t go as far as to say every week.” Hozumi gave a bitter grin. “But we did go to many wakes; my family saw them as opportunities to stay acquainted with the local people. Plus, people would probably make snide remarks if we went to one and didn’t show up to another.”
“Sounds cutthroat.”
“So you went alongside your father?” Iori asked.
“Of course. It was always the four of us—my father, mother, brother, and I.” Hozumi dropped two sugar cubes into his latte and stirred.
“I remember them well,” he continued. “My brother and I wore matching waistcoats and shorts. My mother would walk us from the car to the venue, taking my hand. For some reason, it seemed to rain whenever we attended a wake, so we always kept a black umbrella on hand. She would hold it over my brother and me, not letting a single drop of rain fall on us. Her kimono would get soaked.”
I imagined Madame in her younger days.
The patter of the rain reached my ears. I faced toward the window impulsively. It had started to drizzle.
“I told her every time that I wanted to hold my own umbrella, but she never let me. She’d say, ‘I can’t let my future politicians catch a cold.’ ”
“That must have been hard to bear,” Iori said.
Hozumi gave another bitter smile and rubbed his shaved head.
“But once we’d finished signing in at the reception desk, my father would take mine and my brother’s hands. He would get more attention that way, to be seen walking us in. A loving father was his political brand, so I suppose it was a good tactic.”
I felt a wave of nausea in my stomach.
What a horrible parent! I wanted to say, but I wasn’t about to insult Hozumi’s family. I forced my displeasure down with my latte.
Hozumi suddenly looked up as though he’d remembered something else. “That calls to mind another story. Guess what my mother and father always said to me growing up?”
Was he talking about a family motto? I’d heard of ones like “you must not lie” or “be kind to others.” But I had no idea what sort of precepts a political family would teach.
“They told us to get along with everyone.”
“Oh, I thought it was going to be something more unexpected.”
“Yeah, that’s more straightforward than I thought,” Iori added.
Seeing our disappointment, Hozumi laughed self-deprecatingly. Then he added, “Because it’s one more vote.”
“Huh?”
“Because one person equals one vote. No matter how big of an asshole someone is, you need their vote. Even if you get bullied, just put a smile on your face and forgive them. If you get into a fight, just lower your head and apologize to them. Your anger will never be worth more than a vote. You should know how to get along with everyone.”
My heart prickled at his words.
“When there was an incident at school, I was often blamed. Maybe it’s because I have evil-looking eyes, but I was always the prime suspect.
If a pencil case went missing, they would say, ‘I saw Hozumi staring at it. He stole it, I can tell. It was definitely him, just look at those eyes.’ There was no use in trying to defend myself. ”
Hozumi sighed softly. His hands clasped together.
“No one would believe me…. Actually, no one cared if they believed me or not.”
“They didn’t care?” I asked.
“When something like that happens, people need that one person they can blame. It doesn’t matter who it is. They don’t really care about whether that person really did it or not. All they want to do is create a certain atmosphere, one that says ‘Hozumi’s done it again.’ ”
Iori’s voice quivered. “That pisses me off.”