Chapter 27 Only God Knows the Answer
Only God Knows the Answer
When I opened my eyes again it was after nine at night. I felt my forehead to make sure I wasn’t running a temperature. I wasn’t in the habit of having afternoon naps lasting more than six hours. And I was cold—too cold.
When I got up, my bones were creaking as if I’d been beaten up.
Naked in my spartan room, I dithered over whether I should go down to the onsen or have a shower to bring myself back to the waking world.
Thinking that the water in the onsen would make me even dopier than I already was, I took the latter course.
After dousing myself in lukewarm water, I got dressed: beige cotton trousers and best black T-shirt. I may have looked as if I had somewhere to go to, but the truth was quite the opposite.
As I went down the wooden stairs, I wondered if I was ill. I wasn’t feeling hungry, although I’d had nothing to eat since the fish and rice at breakfast.
Was this because of heartbreak? Was I going to waste away like those lovesick young men in romantic novels?
It’s pathetic when a man of over forty-five has to suffer like this, I said to myself as I raised a hand to greet the receptionist. I’d put the postcards in my pocket—heaven knows why. The whole thing had turned into a fixation.
Maybe because I’m a creature of habit wherever I am, I took the same route as the previous night.
The little lantern of the karaoke bar for the lonely gave off its wan glow at the end of the geisha street.
I had no intention of going back there, but as I walked past the door, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks.
The iron plaque had been replaced by a wooden one revealing that overnight the place had acquired a name: SAMUEL’S BAR.
Astounded by this, I quickly realized that it must have been that Japanese eccentric who’d suggested this name to the owner.
I pushed open the door. I wanted an explanation for what I thought was a joke in bad taste, and I was sure that the perpetrator would be inside with his bottle of sake.
Contrary to what I expected, there was no one to be seen in the little bar apart from the owner, who smiled at me conspiratorially.
She was perfectly aware of who I was. The least she could do after hijacking my name for this dive, I thought, was to offer me a drink.
But the way she handed me the drinks list, with its clearly marked prices, made it clear I wasn’t going to be let off the outrageous surcharge for my first drink.
I asked for an Asahi and sat at the same corner of the bar as the previous night.
Like a nightmare running in a feverish loop, some Russian-sounding notes announced that the insidious “Dokonoko no Kinoko” was about to begin.
The difference was that Okamura’s seat was empty.
The microphone lay on the bar like a shipwreck in a sea of wood.
I was on the alert in case the woman tried to make me sing. My suspicions were reinforced when she put a piece of paper on the bar. Glancing at it, I could see it had some writing on it, and didn’t dare to pick it up in case it was a transliteration of the words of the Japanese song.
It turned out to be a translation into English of the lyrics, written with a scratchy pen that gave it a kind of wabi-sabi style, in what looked like a girl’s handwriting.
As the syncopated rhythms invaded the small space, I picked up the paper and started to read.
Hey, mushroom, where are you from?
Beautiful mushroom, where are you from, sir?
A mushroom from the forest.
A forest mushroom turned into a trumpet
And its music flew to the clouds
Puppu-Lu-Papa-Pulu Pappa . . .
Don’t tell this story to the sky.
Hey, mushroom, where are you from?
Beautiful mushroom, where are you from, sir?
A mushroom from the sky.
A sky mushroom turned into a parachute
And fell upon blue waves.
Sulusulu-Lala, Sulu-Lala . . .
Don’t tell this story to the sea.
Hey, mushroom, where are you from?
Beautiful mushroom, where are you from, sir?
A mushroom from the sea.
A sea mushroom turned into a jellyfish
And dreamed of the green forest.
Yurayura-Lu Lu Lu Lu-Yura
Don’t tell this story to anyone.
Hey, mushroom, where are you from?
Beautiful mushroom, where are you from, sir?
A mushroom from the forest.
Only God knows the answer.
I hadn’t got to the last line of these crazy lyrics when the black door opened and Okamura made a triumphal entrance. He was much more elegant than the previous night and, despite the scratched pebble lenses, I could see from his eyes that he hadn’t started drinking yet.
He sat on his stool and, looking at the stranded microphone and addressing it rather than me, announced, “Things will happen today.”