by Debbie Rainer
We used to comment on the couples sat facing one another in restaurants, eating three-course meals without sharing a word. As our children grew, our criticism shifted to families paying good money to sit around a table focused on their devices, eating in silence.
‘Whatever happened to connection?’ we asked one another.
Now, standing alone in Diabo’s Tachinomiya, the scent of saki and fiery wasabi nibbles tickling my tastebuds, I missed him. Watching solo drinkers winding down from a hard day’s work or a busy tour of the city, I convinced myself I was not a solitary exception; I fitted in.
It was my idea to go solo backpacking ahead of retirement; to have one last adventure before settling down to pipe and slippers, bubble and squeak, Cash in the Attic. So here I was.
Diabo’s black hair was cropped and shiny, crowning his uniform of crisp white shirt, black trousers and starched apron: an outfit that never altered. He had bright dark eyes and a pale stain on his left cheek, perhaps a birthmark. His was just another citizen, except when standing behind the counter where he was King. Diabo glanced my way and nodded, an unspoken hint that he knew why I was really there, having seen me at least three times a week since my arrival in Tokyo. He knew that no one found his bar by accident. You had to know it was there, before you climbed the narrow stairs to the small room, standing room for thirty at the most, a long slim galley of a space like an eel’s nest.
I liked the idea of a nest, a warm and cosy space to settle. Its hypothetical inhabitation by slithering, writhing creatures was harder to embrace, not least because there was something in Diabo’s habit of chuckling to himself when tourists tried out their Japanese that hinted at a slippery character. Once, when the bar was quiet, I asked him to help me practise my Japanese, telling him off for laughing when I confused the word for ‘dictionary’ with ‘bicycle’.
‘Japanese is so hard’ I said. ‘It’s alright for you, thinking, dreaming, living, the language.’ He nodded sympathetically, before snorting uncontrollably as I translated ‘minor problem’ into ‘cataclysmic catastrophe’.
‘Keep trying!’ he encouraged.
Diabo’s wife, who sometimes worked alongside him in the tachinomiya, spoke good English. Her family had not wanted them to come to Tokyo, warning it was a restless city where everything was constantly shifting, nothing stayed the same. Yet somehow, despite its bohemian buildings giving way to developers soon after the millennium, traditional coffee shops replaced by chains, Diabo’s stayed the same. He seamlessly rebranded ‘bar’ into ‘tachinomiya’ by removing the seats and turning the ramen counter into a coin operated left luggage locker, his ramshackle two storey home surviving alongside towering, glittering boxes, their floor to ceiling windows reflecting tiny people thronging the busy streets like traditional characters carved out of wood or bone. Diabo’s mother-in-law passed on her secret recipes for soba buckwheat noodles and sashimi tartare, drawing in a new generation who made their own culinary judgments once they’d checked the online rankings.
As eight o’clock drew near, Diabo beckoned me over, smiling conspiratorially,
‘You ready? It is the best quality. I will wrap in foil.’
My stomach churned as I shakily slid the yen across the counter, glancing over my shoulder to check for anyone queueing. Diabo vanished through the hanging plastic strips, the scent of myriad yakitori tare mingling with mentaiko sauce, wafting on a wave whilst I awaited his return, masking my nerves as I avoided checking my phone yet again.
‘Here. Plenty for two.’ He winked as he plonked down the disposable containers, washi tape holding the lids in place.
‘You need whisky highball? It will help. You are too pale. He will think you are ill.’ I hesitated, before shaking my head.
‘No, I must go. He is expecting me.’
I could feel my heart thumping as I escaped onto the busy street, merging into the crowds heading towards Shinjuku Station before peeling off down a side road. Diabo was right. I should have had that highball. The location of the spare key had been shared and we were meeting at the ryokan that had been my home for the past few weeks. I knew the owners were fussy – they watched closely for arrivals, vetting suitability, ensuring the ‘quality’ of their accommodation was not compromised by casual relationships. Their disapproval might not be easy to brush off; I daren’t risk being caught and interrogated by the community police – they took such pride in ‘protecting’ landlords from unscrupulous guests sneaking in a plus one. This was not an evening to be spent at the koban.
Fumbling with the key, I knew it was vital to get inside before anyone guessed the reason for my generous takeaway. I almost dropped it all, stifling a scream as strong arms pulled me inside.
‘Careful! Don’t make me spill the noodles!’ I hushed, shutting the door with an elbow. Steve laughed, holding me close whilst rabbiting on about some saga at Haneda Airport.
New accommodation could be sorted tomorrow; right now, it was just good to have him here. Solitude is overrated; my husband and I never eat in silence.
Debbie Rainer is an ex primary school teacher now working in adult education, coaching school leaders and tutoring parents to support their children’s literacy skills. Debbie has published education articles and won awards for fiction and travel writing. Following completion of a short story course with City St George’s, University of London, her current focus is creative writing.
Photo Tokyo Treat
